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Iuu^Trated 


CHICAGO: 

MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO., 

PUBLISHERS. 


Idylwild Series. Vol. 1, No. 87, April 1, 1893. Issued weekly. Annual Subscription, $26.00 
Entered in the Postoffice at Chicago as second-class matter. 











“mademoiselle,” said he, “permit me to escort you to 
the door.”— Page 239 . 


© 


AURETTE 




MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO. 












S> 


C\ 


COPYRIGHT 

1893. 

MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO, 


CHAPTER I. 


In the warm air of a superb June afternoon the 
bells of the cathedral at Angers rang out musically, 
and the light breeze which stirred the little white 
clouds in the azure sky bore the joyous sounds 
across the town, beyond the old camp of Fremur, 
almost to the river Loire. 

Standing at the entrance of a conservatory, whose 
shades protected her delicate complexion from the 
burning rays of the sun, Aurette Leneil inclined her 
head a little so as to hear better. The deep, solemn 
tones of the bells filled with strains of mysterious 
harmony the grove of poplar and fir trees which 
formed a curtain of foliage around the house which 
nestled in its verdure. 

“ Vespers are over, and the procession has left 
Saint Maurice,” said she to a small domestic who 
stood near her, watching her arrange a boquet of 
flowers. “ Go and see if the carriage is waiting.” 

The girl disappeared, and Aurette bent lovingly 
over her work. 


6 


AURETTE. 


It was a simple bouquet, destined to adorn the 
centre of the dinner table on this beautiful Fete Dieu 
Sunday, but many things may be expressed in a 
bunch of flowers, and this one was a poem. Every 
blossom was exquisite : white pelargoniums veined 
with purple or crimson, delicate heliotropes, feathery 
fronds of the maiden-hair fern, rare white and yellow 
roses; bleeding hearts, and here and there, a fragile 
spray of exotic honeysuckle : a delicious mixture of 
color and fragrance. 

Aurette leaned fondly over the flowers which 
were placed loosely in a Bohemian glass vase, and 
while breathing in their rich perfume, she adroitly 
slipped a ribbon around them and knotted it without 
lifting them from the vase. 

“I believe that I have never arranged so beauti- 
ful a bouquet,” she said to herself, while a smile 
almost triumphant, parted her lips and shone in her 
eyes, and a fugitive blush flitted across her fresh, 
charming face as she stooped to kiss the odorous 
flower-petals. 

The rolling of carriage wheels upon the graveled 
walk aroused her from her pre-occupation; she ran 
into the house and soon returned wearing a broad- 
brimmed hat which cast a shadow over her soft 
brown eyes and golden hair. 


AURETTE. 


7 


“Papa,” said she, turning toward one of the 
windows which opened upon the portico; “Come 
immediately, or we will be late, and Julia will scold 
us.” 

M. Leneil soon appeared; being a victim to 
chronic rheumatism, he walked with a slow, feeble 
step; yet there was something noble in his bearing, 
and his tall figure, which was perfectly erect, in 
spite of frequent paroxysms of pain, and his hand- 
some face, both testified to his right to the name 
which he bore in his youth; Handsome Leneil. 

After he was comfortably seated in the carriage 
he turned to his daughter. 

“Where is Sidonie?” said he, “is she not com- 
ing?” 

A slight shadow stole across Aurette’s delicate 
face as she replied in the negative. 

“ Nor Charles?” said M. Leneil, “We alone in all 
that pomp?” 

Meanwhile, the horses had started off briskly in 
the direction of the town, and he sat by his daugh- 
ter’s side, lost in meditation. 

“Have you not observed,” he said at last, turning 
to Aurette, “that Sidonie has become very serious.” 

Aurette blushed almost imperceptibly. The 


8 


AURETTE. 


least emotion brought the blood to her face, which 
was as fair and sweet as the petals of a magnolia. 

“Very serious?” she repeated, after a slight hesi- 
tation. 

“Or sad; I hardly know how to express it, but 
she is certainly changed. She used to be the picture 
of happiness; she is not ill?” 

“No; at least I hope not.” Then after a short 
silence Aurette turned to her father with a counten- 
ance beaming with kindness. “She is young, you 
know, papa,” she added with an expression almost 
supplicating. 

M. Leneil laughed. 

“Young! I should say so. You are not old, 
neither is Charles, nor Julia; you are all young, my 
little birds! I am the only old one in our Nest.” 

He sighed deeply. Four years previous to this, 
he had sustained a terrible loss in the death of his 
wife, and but for the solicitude of his eldest daugh- 
ter, his children would have been doubly orphaned. 

“I?” cried Aurette with a radiant smile, “I am 
old! Why, I am positively venerable! You know as 
well as I do, papa, that I will soon be twenty-three; 
it is no use to dissemble!” 


AURETTE. 


9 


M. Leneil looked at her with an intensity of 
affection which could only have come from the 
depths of his soul. 

She slipped her slender, gloved hand into his 
good paternal one, and pressed it tenderly, turning 
away her face for fear of betraying her emotion. 
At this moment the Cathedral bells burst forth into 
a Hosanna, almost above their heads. 

“See, papa,” exclaimed Aurette, “there is the 
procession. We are just in time for Julia.” 

The procession moved slowly along under the 
trees of the boulevard, between the two rows of a 
curious, respectful crowd. The trunks of the trees 
were wrapped with white linen and tastefully 
wreathed with garlands of flowers and long festoons 
of muslin, and oriflammes strewn with golden stars 
floated lightly from the windows. While waiting 
for the procession to pass, a juggler had spread his 
carpet upon the ground, and was energetically per- 
forming his tricks to the amazement of the expect- 
ant crowd. 

“This makes one feel young again,” said M. 
Leneil with an indulgent smile. 

The noise of the drums, beaten unceasingly, 


10 


AURETTE. 


drew nearer, and the mountebank quickly folded his 
carpet, and went further off to display his skill. 

At Aurette’s command, the carriage had stopped 
at the corner of the boulevard, and standing side by 
side, the father and daughter watched the cortege 
slowly advance toward them. First came the local 
musicians, beating their drums with great dignity; 
then the children, young girls in short dresses with 
their hair curled, and other tiny darlings trotting 
along as best they could, occasionally guided by the 
protecting hand of a mother or sister. Then there 
were the communicants for the year, in their fresh 
muslin dresses and long veils; then the bearers of 
standards, oriflammes and the litanies of the Virgin 
emblazoned upon blue and white banners; the theo- 
logical Virtues, and several saints represented by 
young girls belonging to prominent families, and 
others carrying upon a cushion the insignia of their 
fraternity, the whole making a charming picture of 
virginal youth, as they marched onward in their 
snowy garments, chanting hymns. 

Mary Magdalen, in a robe which fell in graceful 
folds around her slender form, walked with bowed 
head, and her waving hair fell almost to her knees. 

“That is Julia,” whispered Aurette. 


AURETTE. 


II 


As if warned by a secret intuition, the Mary 
Magdalen raised her eyes for an instant, and seeing 
the beaming faces of her father and sister, responded 
to their affectionate glances with a smile in which 
there was a strange mixture of filial joy and religious 
ecstasy. The smile vanished quickly, and she re- 
sumed her attitude of prayerful repentance. 

“I am glad this is her last year at the convent,” 
murmured M. Leneil, “for she would end by not 
caring for us.” 

“Papa!” said Aurette gently, “you surely would 
not be jealous of the good God!” 

“ No, because she is coming back to us,” replied 
M. Leneil gravely. 

The procession of boys now passed. There was 
a diminutive John the Baptist, in swaddling clothes 
and a sheepskin, who seemed suffocated, at once, 
with pride and zeal. A youthful Christ bore his 
hollow cross without sorrow or fatigue, and a Saint 
Louis of the same age, bearing the crown of thorns 
upon a crimson velvet cushion, brushed the dust 
from his royal mantle bordered with ermine, with 
the vanity of a child who feels himself handsome 
and admired. The older boys walked behind with 
banners and oriflammes of gold and scarlet. Then 


12 


AURETTE. 


came the band from a celebrated college of the 
town, the clergy of the Cathedral, the censer bearer, 
and at last, an old priest, under a canopy, carrying 
the Host, which was covered with a cloth of gold. 

‘‘To the Cathedral,” said Aurette to the coach- 
man, and the carriage was soon rolling slowly along 
the streets where the inhabitants were hastening 
homeward to take in the holiday decorations, in 
order to end their day joyously out of doors. 

M. Leneil and his daughter arrived at Saint 
Maurice just as the procession turned the corner of 
the Archbishop’s palace. The walls and railings of 
the palace were hidden beneath antique tapestry, 
treasures belonging to the Cathedral, admirably 
preserved and hoarded there for centuries. All this 
magnificence passed before them a second time, in a 
glory somewhat theatrical. They were marching 
rapidly now, in haste to re-enter. The Mary Mag- 
dalen who still walked with downcast eyes, pale, 
fatigued, unconscious of the murmur of admiration 
which her beauty provoked from a crowd, more 
select than that of the boulevard, did not see them 
this time. 

Aurette stepped quickly from the carriage and 
just as her sister was about to pass under the porch, 


AURETTE. 


13 


where the air was trembling with the vibrations of 
thundering organs and the swelling peals of har- 
mony from the bells, she touched her gently on the 
arm to attract her attention. 

Julia started violently and remained transfixed 
to the spot, while her young companions ran past 
her to take their places in the choir. A nun hurried 
back with a stern air to ascertain the cause of the 
detention, but when she recognized Mile. Leneil her 
expression changed instantly. 

“Julia is greatly fatigued, Mother,” said Aurette, 
“and I am afraid she will faint; you must permit me 
to take her away with me at once.” 

She spoke in a manner which did not admit of a 
refusal. The nun, seeing the tired, worn face of her 
pupil, readily gave her consent. 

Leading her sister aside, a little within the door- 
way, she quickly tucked up the waving blonde locks 
which made a royal mantle for the frail young body. 
She then placed upon her head a straw hat trimmed 
with a single white ribbon, which she had brought 
with her, and this being accomplished she returned 
to the carriage accompanied by Julia. 

“Take us home now,” said Aurette as she threw 
around her sister a light gray wrap. 


14 


AURETTE. 


The old coachman touched up his horses, and 
Julia suddenly awakened from her state of half 
hallucination, and returned to real life. 

“ Good evening, papa; good evening, Aurette,” 
said she, as the color mounted to her pale cheeks, 
and a new light shone in her violet eyes. “Ah me, 
I am so tired.” She stretched herself upon the 
cushions with a supple, graceful movement, which 
seemed to give her a sensible pleasure. 

“I was benumbed,” said she laughing, “physi- 
cally and morally. You restored the circulation by 
putting on my hat, I assure you, Aurette!” 

M. Leneil smiled for the first time since he had 
seen her in the procession. 

“You will brighten up at the Nest,” said he, 
“The Bertholons are coming to dinner.” 

“Ah! that is pleasant!” said Julia approvingly. 
“ Have you made a beautiful bouquet, Aurette?” 

“I hope so,” replied Aurette gaily, with the 
same sweet blush which had come to her cheeks 
when she pressed the flowers to her lips. 

“And Mme. Bertholon will take them away with 
her as usual,” said the young girl with a significant 
look which went to Aurette’s soul. She smiled 


AURETTE. 


15 


feebly, as if to demand mercy, and received in ex- 
change a glance full of infinite tenderness. 

Ten minutes later they alighted from the car 
riage before the door of their home, so beautifully 
called Bird’s Nest; which they had finally abbrevi- 
ated to “ the Nest.” 

Here it was that twenty years before, M. Leneil 
had prepared a home for his young wife, who soon 
converted the old house into one of the most de- 
lightful country places in the neighborhood of 
Angers. 

An old lady of about sixty was awaiting them 
on the steps. 

“I am a little ahead of time,” she said with an 
amiable smile, “ I don’t mean to say that you are late, 
however, for I have not waited for you long.” 

“We had the good fortune to find Julia just as 
the procession was entering the Cathedral,” said M. 
Leneil, “It is very kind of you to come so early, 
but where is Raoul?” 

“In the park, I believe. We found no one here 
to receive us.” 

“ Charles not here!” 

“He has perhaps just left; I have not seen him.” 

“Nor Sidonie?” 


i6 


AURETTE. 


“I have not seen her either; but you may be 
sure they are not lost.” 

Mme. Bertholon pinched up her lips as she pro- 
nounced these last words, and M. Leneil averted his 
eyes with a certain embarrassment. Aurette blushed, 
Julia turned pale, and every one seemed ill at ease. 

“Here they are!” said the father with an expres- 
sion of relief. 

Raoul Bertholon appeared upon the winding 
avenue accompanied by Charles. Sidonie walked 
behind them with an air of distraction, twirling her 
sash ribbon around her finger, and letting it fall only 
to resume it again immediately. 

“So you have come at last!” said M. Leneil 
somewhat sternly, “you should have been here, 
both of you, to receive our guests in our absence.” 

Sidonie remained silent with downcast eyes. 
Charles stammered out an excuse, and embraced 
his younger sister, and began immediately to con- 
verse with Mme. Bertholon. 

Raoul approached Aurette and they pressed 
each other’s hands in silence. Since their engage- 
ment a year before, they had perhaps not a dozen 
times had an opportunity to converse together for 
any length of time; but Raoul came with his mother 


AURETTE. 


17 


every Sunday to dine at the Nest, and the young 
girl found herself becoming each day, more and 
more in love with her betrothed. 

She had adorned him with every virtue; she 
even attributed to him genius, and expected great 
things of him when once he was married. What? 
Aurette did not know herself, but great things at 
any rate. He was an amiable young fellow, intelli- 
gent, though somewhat effeminate, without posses- 
sing any remarkable ability. At the age of twenty- 
nine he had chosen the career of an architect, but 
up to this time he had reached no distinction in his 
profession. Being an only child, his mother allowed 
him an annuity of twenty thousand francs, which 
dispensed with the necessity of making any other 
effort, for he was not ambitious. After a while, 
when he should have exchanged this semi-guardian- 
ship, indefinitely prolonged by a despotic mother, 
for the liberty of a married man, he intended to 
apply himself to his work with renewed energy, and 
accomplish wonders! And Aurette listened with a 
smile of rapture and confidence. But they had 
very little chance to discuss their plans; Mme. Ber- 
tholon was always between them, kind and affable 
to her future daughter-in-law, but always present, a 


i8 


AURETTE. 


circumstance which drew from her son’s lips a mur- 
mur, more weary than respectful. 

Aurette pacified him with a glance, imploring 
his indulgence. She understood this jealous mother. 
Could one too dearly love so adorable a son? Mme. 
Bertholon would not always be with them; erelong 
they would have a Nest of their own. They were to 
marry in September, when Julia would leave school 
to remain permanently under the paternal roof, and 
would take from Aurette’s hands the government 
of the household. 

In the meantime, every Sunday, Aurette arranged 
an exquisite bouquet to adorn the table, and which 
her future mother-in-law never failed to take away 
with her. This bouquet was a poem into which the 
young girl poured out, without reserve, all of her 
tender, confiding love; its perfumes and colors were 
the language, as ardent as the cry of passion, in 
which she expressed the vague sentiments which 
sometimes troubled her. She fondly hoped and 
believed that as long as the flowers were fresh they 
would speak of her to her affianced husband. 

“ Is it not wrong to love so ardently?” she 
sometimes asked herself, anxiously. But the ob- 
ject of her love was so soon to be her husband; this 


AURETTE. 


19 


ought to have re-assured her, still, she was some- 
times troubled with an indefinable fear. 

“Do you really love him so much?” asked 
Sidonie one day, as she nibbled the petals of a rose 
she had just plucked. 

Aurette lowered her head and looking into her 
heart she was frightened at the intensity of passion 
which she discovered there. Her twenty-three years 
had given to this lawful love a force which was un- 
known to the young girl hardly escaped from ado- 
lescence. 

“And if he or you should become poor? Or 
if your marriage should be broken off?” continued 
Sidonie, half in jest. 

“I would die,” responded Aurette quietly. 

Sidonie regarded her with an air of incredulity; 
she could never say such a thing; life was too sweet 
to her! 

Sidonie was nineteen. Her parents had died 
when she was very young, and good 4 Mme. Leniel 
had welcomed her to the Nest. Her father had 
declared himself bankrupt, some said in order to 
avoid accounting for large sums of money invested 
elsewhere. And then, too, there had been much 
gossip about his death; he had committed suicide, 
2 


20 


AURETTE. 


it was said, for a woman who had wrought his ruin. 
Meanwhile, his daughter, who was the god-child of 
Mme. Leniel, could not be abandoned; she was 
taken to the Nest and remained there. 

When Mme. Leniel died, Aurette was scarcely 
eighteen, Sidonie fourteen and Julia eleven. The 
two younger girls were at a convent where they 
were to finish their education; Sidonie had only 
returned the year before, at the time of Aurette’s 
betrothal to Raoul Bertholon. 

She had received the news very coldly; it made 
her ill-humored, for the moment, to hear of any 
marriage. Although she had been brought up in 
the same way as Julia and Aurette, and treated as a 
sister by the two young girls, she soon discovered, 
in that intuitive way in which people always find 
out something of which they should be ignorant, 
her true position in the eyes of the world and the 
family which had adopted her. 

Proud and keen, Sidonie comprehended that 
there was very little chance for her to marry, so the 
marriages of others displeased her. 

“You will fly away next,” said Julia to her one 
day, jestingly. 


AURETTE. 


21 


“I? no indeed! I must make my own living. I 
intend to be a governess.” 

But M. Leniel was greatly opposed to this idea. 
However, he permitted her to present herself for 
examination; she was refused. > 

“So much the better!” said he, “you will now be 
forced to remain with us.” 

Sidonie received the same allowance for pocket 
money as Julia; she alone persisted in tracing the 
line of demarcation, more imaginary than real, 
between herself and the sisters. In direct contrast 
to these affected airs of haughty dignity, a real 
insouciance, an absolute indifference to the cares of 
life, sometimes made her gay and even boisterous, 
instead of sour and morose, as one would naturally 
have expected to see her. 

Charles Leniel, four years Aurette’s senior, had 
returned to the Nest almost at the exact time of his 
sister’s betrothal. He had been traveling for sev- 
eral years in the interest of his father’s bank, and 
on his arival from India after a long sojourn, his 
native land appeared more beautiful, more desirable, 
and more attractive in every way than ever before. 

As they sat upon the terrace at the Nest on sum- 
mer evenings, in speaking of his travels, he would 


22 


AURETTE. 


say again and again: “But after all, this is the most 
beautiful spot in the world!” 

The Loire and the Maine at his feet, winding like 
blue and silver ribbons through the meadows; 
the woody hillsides, the trees with hues and forms 
so magnificent that one might find inspiration even 
in the most insignificant alder — the whole country, 
theme for poets’ songs — thrilled him with a sweet 
and infinite joy. 

“I was born to live here!” he exclaimed, “and 
although destiny has made me a kind of wanderer, 
I will at least come here to die!” 

Sidonie, on hearing him so openly avow his pas- 
toral, provincial tastes, would toss her pretty head 
disdainfully, and a look of scorn would flit across her 
beautiful face, whose features were a little too pro- 
nounced, but which nevertheless had an indescrib- 
able charm. 

Tall and svelte , but with a well developed form, 
shapely shoulders and a graceful neck, she held her 
chin always somewhat elevated, which gave to 
her face, already haughty, a commanding look, 
redeemed by the insouciance of her charming smile. 
One could see that she loved to rule, but not being 


AURETTE. 


23 


able to do so, she accepted her lot, and affected a 
supreme indifference to everything. 

Nothing is more vexatious to a man than this 
assumption of indifference; what pleasure was there 
in being adored by the others, esteemed by his 
superiors, respected by his equals, if a young girl, 
who failed in her examination, counts one for noth- 
ing in her life? 

Charles felt this mortification vaguely, hardly 
acknowledging it to himself. He had known Sid- 
onie since her childhood, and, being a respectful son 
to a mother whom he loved above all else, he 
accepted her as a sister. In after years ,when his 
mother’s death and the illness of his father had 
forced him to face the possibility of eventually tak- 
ing upon himself the responsibility of the head of 
the family, he had set aside her share in the paternal 
inheritance, so that the effects of his parents’ kind- 
ness might be felt even in the far distant future. 

So, it was only with brotherly vexation that he 
received Sidonie’s disdain, and in a spirit of friendly 
conciliation he endeavored to keep on amicable 
terms with her. But their conversation inevitably 
ended with mockery on one side, and rudeness on 
the other. Aurette iwas kept busy adjusting these 


24 


AURETTE. 


quarrels, which generally terminated with merry 
peals of laughter on Sidonie’s part. But these 
broils gradually ceased; Charles was absent on bus- 
iness, from time to time, and he would return to 
India immediately after his sister’s marriage, so the 
quarrels of the young people would no longer dis- 
turb the tranquillity of the Nest; yet Aurette was 
still anxious. 

Dinner, on Sunday, was served in the large din- 
ing-room, on three sides of which were glass doors 
through which one could get a glimpse of the 
exquisite landscape flooded with the last golden 
rays of the setting sun. The air was full of peace 
and glory, the flowers in Aurette’s bouquet shed a 
perfume like divine music; out of doors the birds 
were singing, the blackbirds particularly, calling 
from tree to tree in notes almost as sweet as those 
of a nightingale. The table was loaded with luscious 
fruits served on Limoges china of creamy white- 
ness, wreathed with a lace-work of rose-tinted 
porcelain. 

Mme. Bertholon gave a sigh of happy content- 
ment as she leaned back in her chair; her keen, 
scrutinizing glance wandered around the table and 


AURETTE. 25 

fell upon Charles, who had been unusually silent 
during the repast. 

“When will you return to India?” she said to 
him in a low but penetrating voice. 

The young man started as if the subject was 
painful to him. He looked at her in an embarrassed 
way and replied with a kind of effort: 

“As soon after my sister’s marriage as it is con- 
venient, madame.” 

A sharp glance flashed from Sidonie’s downcast 
eyes; she elevated her chin as usual, and her gray, 
cat-like eyes roved from one to the other of the 
company without resting on any one. 

“You regret to leave, do you not?” continued 
Mme. Bertholon, without raising her voice. 

“Ah! Certainly!” sighed Charles with inexpres- 
sible sadness. 

M. Leniel rose from the table. 

“Let us not think of it,” said he; “moreover, 
his absence will not last forever. My son is build- 
ing his fortune as I built mine, with hard work, 
patience and many sacrifices.” 

“Yes, father,” said Charles gently, “but you were 
not compelled to exile yourself.” 


26 


AURETTE. 


“ Exile is a cruel word, my son; more cruel than 
the thing itself,” observed M. Leniel, “especially 
when one is at liberty to return and renounce his 
career!” 

•‘And no brave man would do that,” interrupted 
Julia, who up to that moment had taken no part in 
the conversation. 

Her clear, crystaline voice resounded like a bell. 

Silence reigned; they left the dining-room and 
went to sit upon the terrace to drink their coffee. 
Aurette poured it out and Julia handed the cups; 
she had taken off her white muslin dress and donned 
a woolen robe of a silver-grey color which gave her 
almost a monastic appearance. 

The conversation soon revived; the gentlemen 
lighted their cigars, and Raoul, who by virtue of his 
rights was sitting near Aurette, was deeply absorbed 
in watching the spiral wreaths of smoke dissolve in 
the air. He was thinking of nothing in reality, in 
the beatitude of a good dinner past, and an excel- 
lent cigar present. 

The stars began to twinkle in the blue heavens, 
scattered here and there, at first scarcely visible, 
increasing in number and brilliancy as the fiery 
tints of the setting sun faded into the delicate gray 


AURETTE. 


2 7 


of twilight. Aurette felt her soul rising like incense 
and mounting toward the stars. In a few months 
their divine splendor would have for her a new 
meaning; Raoul would still be at her side, but as 
her husband; nothing could separate them then; no 
one would have the right to come between them, 
and she could hold within her own the cool, firm 
hand that now merely touched her fingers at meet- 
ing and parting. In this dream of definite, complete 
possession, she pictured herself in the embrace of 
two strong arms in which she would rest as con- 
fidingly as when her father lulled her to sleep in her 
childhood. 

In a few months, or rather weeks, she could 
speak aloud the name which now she only whispered 
to herself in silence. She would tell him of the ten- 
derness budding in her soul; she would think, feel, 
live aloud in the presence of this other soul which 
would have become her own. She would read his 
thoughts, she would bend over him and, gazing into 
the depths of his eyes, divine all that he had ever 
felt or dreamed, without his telling her. 

“Give us some music, Aurette,” said her father, 
“we will remain here.” 


28 


AURETTE. 


Aroused from her rapturous thoughts, she rose 
obediently and entered the drawing-room where 
the lamps were lighted. 

Every Sunday she played thus for a half hour 
before Mme. Bertholon asked for her carriage. 

She first selected, almost unconsciously, melan- 
choly pieces, because their music was to her a song 
of adieu. Besides, is there not ever an undercur- 
rent of profound melancholy in all love which is 
still unrealized? Aurette felt herself quivering with 
emotion; she wished to weep, to cry out to this im- 
passive Raoul, who loved her though, else why did 
he care to marry her? How she loved him! She 
was as bold in her music as she was with her flowers. 
This virginal Aurette, who would have died of 
shame if her soul had suddenly been unveiled to 
her lover, was capable of expressing the most ardent 
passion in the harmonies she could not create, but 
which she knew so well how to interpret. 

After playing two favorite airs of her father, 
she began one of Mendelssohn’s “ Songs Without 
Words,” in which there is so much of love and 
rapture. She played slowly, for she was alone, and 
it seemed to her that she was at the organ in the 
great Cathedral, full of the faithful, and that she 


AURETTE. 


29 


was speaking tor all the human souls in distress of 
love, presenting to the Almighty their ardent sup- 
plications. When she finished, the tears were roll- 
ing down her cheeks. 

She took her little handkerchief and quickly 
wiped them away, then stepped through the French 
window which opened upon the terrace, to join the 
others. 

“You play well,” said Mme. Bertholon, in her 
concise tones, “you have made much progress since 
last winter; you possess a beautiful accomplishment 
for entertainment.” 

In the darkness, Julia slipped her arm around 
her sister’s waist, and pressed a warm kiss on her 
cheek. 

“She is horrible, your mother-in-law!” she said 
under her breath, “and you are an angel.” 

M. Leneil held out his hand to his eldest daugh- 
ter. 

“She never fails to charm me,” said he. “I am 
accustomed to listening to her; it seems to me that 
she is speaking when she plays thus.” 

Aurette’s eyes sought Raoul’s and found them. 
She was very beautiful in this twilight, and for a 
moment he was truly in love. As she passed near 


30 


AURETTE. 


him he gently caught her hand which was half hid- 
den in the folds of her dress. 

Mme. Bertholon had risen to go. Raoul felt 
suddenly enraptured. 

“You know,” he whispered softly, “that I love 
you, dear Aurette.” 

This cry from the heart was perhaps not very 
eloquent, but it touched Aurette in the innermost 
fibre of her soul. She looked at Raoul with an ex- 
pression of love so intense and ingenuous that he 
was deeply moved, and imprinted upon her hand, 
which he still held within his own, a passionate kiss. 

Aurette was silent; she was realizing her dream. 
Would it always be thus? Could she feel such hap- 
piness and live? She suddenly had a vision of their 
nuptials; in the great Cathedral at Angers, she was 
walking near Raoul to the altar, crowned with 
flowers and gleaming with lights; he placed the 
marriage ring upon her finger. Ah, what a stead- 
fast, faithful wife she would be until death! 

He relinquished the loyal hand which had not 
returned his pressure, so overcome with emotion 
was Aurette, and went to join his mother, who 
feigned not to have witnessed this scene. 


AURETTE. 


31 


The adieus were made as between persons who 
see each other often, and soon the noise of the 
wheels on the gravel died away in the tranquil air 
of the peaceful June night. 

When the park gate closed behind the carriage, 
Mme. Bertholon turned to Raoul, and said in Eng- 
lish, so that the coachman might not understand: 

“ It is not necessary to go too far with Mile. 
Leneil; you were wrong to kiss her hand so early.” 

Raoul made an impatient gesture, and finally 
responded in French: 

“Why, mamma, this is unreasonable! You forget 
that we are to be married in three months.” 

“ I know what I am talking about/' replied his 
mother, still in English. “ So long as a marriage 
has not taken place it may be broken off, and I dis- 
like complications.” 

Raoul took refuge in his corner and did not 
respond. When the carriage stopped at the door, 
he assisted his mother to the house, but instead of 
entering, he went to join his companions at a 
fashionable coffee-house. 


CHAPTER II. 


“Father,” said Charles, laying his hand lightly 
upon M. Leneil’s shoulder. His sisters and Sidonie 
had retired to their rooms, and his father was reclin- 
ing upon a sofa near the drawing-room door, quietly 
enjoying the splendor of the night. 

“ I thought you had gone out, Charles,” said he 
with a shade of surprise in his voice. 

“I only took a short walk in the park, for I wish 
to have a talk with you.” 

“This evening?” 

“This evening, if possible. I have had a care on 
my mind for some time, and you can give me relief; 
you are so good.” 

“Care, at your age! Are you in trouble about 
business matters?” 

“ No; all is safe in that direction.” 

M. Leneil sighed deeply. 

“ Tell me then,” he said. 

“ I wish to marry,” replied Charles with a pain- 
ful effort. 


AURETTE. 


33 


His father looked grave, but not surprised. 

“You are twenty-seven; you are right; it is time. 
Have you made your choice ?” 

“Yes/’ said he in a low voice. 

Then he was silent; M. Leneil raised his head; 
their eyes met, and Charles knew that his secret 
was divined. 

“Tell me her name,” said his father slowly, with 
a serious air. 

“You know it — it is Sidonie.” 

This name as it fell from his lips seemed to 
resound in the silence of the profound night which 
hung over all space, pierced only by the light of 
gleaming stars. His father’s eyes were fixed on the 
darkness, while his son breathlessly awaited his 
answer. 

“ Father,” said he, “ I love her.” 

M. Leneil rose and went to lean against the door 
which led out on the terrace; never before had he 
appeared so tall to Charles. 

“You love her,” said he, “knowing that there is 
a stain upon her family, and that I would never con- 
sent to the marriage.” 

“Father,” said Charles with a bowed head, “I 
have not sought this love; it has come — ” 


34 


AURETTE. 


“So! it is she!” interrupted his father, angrily. 
“I have seen it! I have not been deceived, but I 
was not willing to believe it, it seemed to me so 
odious! She said that she did not desire to marry! 
She knew that she could not expect to do so in a 
town whose strict notions of — ” 

“It is not her fault!” exclaimed Charles irritably. 

“Her father’s conduct and death! Who said it 
was her fault? I am neither so cruel nor unreason- 
able. Still, the fault exists. Sidonie is innocent of 
it; so be it; but if any one must suffer, is it not 
natural that it should be she, instead of others?” 

“Suffer, why?” 

M. Leneil made a gesture of impatience. 

“ Do you not know that we live in a provincial 
town? Every one is familiar with the scandal, and 
it has been repeated and exaggerated till it has 
reached vast proportions. In Paris a man’s crime 
is soon forgotten; in a province, it follows him to 
the grave. I will never give my consent for you to 
marry Sidonie!” 

Charles felt his anger rising before this just 
opposition. 

“It will be a cruel injustice!” said he, under his 
breath. 


AURETTE. 


35 


“‘Do you wish me to speak more plainly?” said 
M. Leneil, approaching his son with a menacing air. 
“Very well, hear it! It is not only because Sidonie 
is the daughter of a dishonest man, a suicide; but 
it is because she has neither rectitude, nor kindness 
of heart. It is because she has won you secretly, 
knowing that I would never give my consent to the 
marriage; it is because for several months, under 
your father’s roof, in the house with your sisters, 
you have carried on with her an unavowable in- 
trigue!” 

“ Father!” cried Charles, springing to his feet,” 
do not insult her! she is above reproach.” 

“I hope so!” replied M. Leneil, disdainfully, 
“ But do you think that I desire for a daughter one 
who has repaid my kindness by turning you against 
me, and by acting treacherously in the dark? For 
this alone, I would not wish her in my family.” 

He paced the floor restlessly for a few moments, 
then becoming less excited, he approached his son. 

“Understand, Charles,” said he, “that I should 
regret that there should be any misunderstanding 
between us. For the first time in our lives, we are 
not in harmony; until now you have been a tender, 
affectionate son. I was — I am — proud of you. You 

3 


36 


AURETTE. 


have been an honor to my name. My paternal love 
and wisdom should make me warn you of a danger 
of which you are unsuspicious, of a future of which 
you have no presentiment; an imprudent, ill-assorted 
marriage will weigh upon your whole life. Sidonie 
is not the woman you need; you must not marry 
her.” 

Charles trembled with suppressed anger. 

“If you hate her so,” said he, “ I don’t under- 
stand why you have brought her up with my sisters.” 

“Hate her! I hate her so little that I have set 
aside a dowry for her, for the day when some man 
shall demand her for his wife; a man with a different 
mind from my own. But I know her very little. I 
believe that she is egotistical and careless of the 
happiness of others. I did not dream that she was 
false and artful. Even though she were the daughter 
of an honorable man I would not wish her for your 
wife.” 

Charles made a gesture full of bitterness and 
rage. 

“ Later on,” continued his father, “you will thank 
me. 

“Do not count upon that,” said Charles starting 
toward the door. He stopped upon the threshold. 


AURETTE. 


37 


“And now,” he said, “she is going to suffer 
because I love her; you will punish her because of 
the passion with which sh^ has inspired me.” 

“Punish her? She merits it surely; but I am not 
a wicked man. Did she know it was your intention 
to speak to me to-day?” 

For the first time in his life Charles spoke a 
falsehood to his father. 

“No,” he said, averting his eyes; and M. Leniel 
believed him. 

“Then I will say nothing to her. To-morrow you 
will leave for Paris, and will remain there until I 
recallyou. This will give me time to make a decision. 
Do not fear that your sisters or I will be unkind to 
her; were I tempted to be, Aurette would defend 
her. I will decide in ten days. Good night.” 

Charles was about to leave the room, but his 
father called him back. 

“I am not a man of vain words,” said he, “and 
never” — he emphasized the word — “will I give my 
consent, with a good heart, to your marriage with 
Sidonie. You could, no doubt, marry her without 
my consent, but you would not be willing to do 
that. No, Charles, I do not believe that you would 
give me such a cruel blow. You say that she 


33 


AURETTE. 


does not deserve to suffer; neither do I, my dear 
son, deserve to suffer through my children. As far 
as I was able, I have been a true father, an honest 
man and a good citizen. Do not sadden my old 
age.” 

He held out his hand, almost hesitatingly, but 
Charles seized it and pressed it to his lips. M 
Leniel drew him to his breast and held him there. 

“We will endeavor to make her happy,” said 
he, releasing his son from his embrace, “I will 
double the sum I have laid aside for her dowry; we 
will carry her away to watering-places, to the sea- 
shore, and next winter, if necessary, to Paris. I will 
find a good husband for her there — some brave man; 
all the world is not so prejudiced as in the provinces. 
She will be happy; you are not a child, and you 
will soon rise above it — you will console yourself 
ere long. Your father will sustain you in doing 
your duty.” 

He spoke with the assurance of a man who had 
tested life, and who knew the nothingness of human 
passions; but Charles was young and did not look 
at things in the same light. He merely pressed his 
father’s hand and left the room without responding. 
M. Leneil leaned in the embrasure of the window, and 


AURETTE. 


39 


watched the stars twinkling so mysteriously in the 
dark heavens. His heart was very heavy. Had he 
merited that this orphan whom he had so kindly 
sheltered should bring upon him the greatest grief 
which he had known since the death of his beloved 
wife? How cruelly she had recompensed his charity! 

He remained there lost in thought till Aurette’s 
light step upon the floor awakened him from his 
meditation. 

“What! Are you not asleep yet?” he asked 
with some inquietude. 

“No, papa. I heard you conversing with Charles, 
you know my window opens above the terrace, so I 
came — .” 

“As usual, to bring me consolation?” 

“Some of it; but I knew of whom you were 
speaking.” 

“He has told you?” 

“No, but I discovered it long ago. She is young, 
papa, you must forgive her.” 

Her caressing arms were around his neck and 
her whole attitude demanded pardon for the lovers. 

“Forgive her? Do you mean that I should 
permit them to marry?” 


40 


AURETTE. 


Aurette hesitated, then kissing him, she led him 
to an arm chair and closed the window to shut out 
the night air. 

“You wish them to marry?” he repeated almost 
angrily, 

“I hardly know,” replied Aurette, drawing her 
chair very near to him. “You are the best judge of 
all which concerns the honor of our family, yet — ” 

She hesitated as if seeking a better way to 
express a vague sentiment. 

“ But what?” demanded her father with nervous 
impatience. 

“ It seems to me that this marriage is not alto- 
gether impossible,” she said, after a moment of 
silence. 

“Do you know how her father died? And do 
you know of his disgrace?” exclaimed M. Leneil. 

“I know that neither his life nor death was ex- 
emplary; but papa, Charles is reasonable in one 
thing, at least; it is not Sidonie’s fault.” 

“That I will admit!” said M. Leneil, nervously, 
“ but her own conduct, the clandestine meetings, 
the intrigue carried on beneath my roof, in the same 
house with you and Julia; can you excuse this also?” 

“I, papa, have nothing to excuse;” said Aurette, 


AURETTE. 


41 


with a gentle smile, “ it is you alone who have a 
right to be offended, and it seems to me that — ” 

“ Speak out!” 

“ Ah, well! that since you alone should be of- 
fended, you alone have the right to — oh! papa, I 
dare not speak it — to pardon!” 

She took her father’s hand and pressed it to her 
lips. He drew her to him gently. 

“Aurette,” said he, ‘‘believe me, a man is a bet- 
ter judge of such matters. It is a question of 
honor, my child, and morally, Sidonie has been dis- 
honorable.” 

“It is also a question of love, papa. They love 
each other, and you do nqt know what they would 
suffer were they separated!” 

M. Leneil looked at his daughter in surprise. 
He knew that she was devoted to her lover, but she 
was equally devoted to her family and her duties; 
had she then experienced emotions which he had 
never suspected? 

“And you,” said he, “do you know what they 
would suffer?” 

Aurette blushed; the shell pink on her cheeks 
deepened into carnation, and she drooped her dark 
eyelashes. It was the first time her father had 


42 


AURETTE. 


questioned her in regard to her innermost thoughts, 
but she was straightforward and brave above all 
else, so she responded without hesitation. 

“I am sure of one thing, at least. I have con- 
sented to marry Raoul Bertholon with your approval, 
papa, but, now, should it be necessary to renounce 
him, I—” 

Overcome with the intensity of her feelings she 
could not proceed, and the tears glistened -in her 
eyes. 

“So,” she continued, recovering herself immedi- 
ately, “I greatly pity these two children.” 

She very naively treated her brother as a child, 
although he was several years her senior, but she 
had so long been accustomed to watch over the 
whole household (like a young mother) whose hap- 
piness was in her hands. 

“ Then,” replied her father, “you think I should 
yield?” 

“Yes papa.” 

“Have you thought of the effect such a resolu- 
tion would produce upon the world?” 

Aurette shook her head. 

“Do we live for the world?” said she. 


AURETTE. 


43 


“No, but we live in the world. For example, 
without going any further, what would Mme. Ber- 
tholon say?” 

“She is not very indulgent, it is true,” responded 
Aurette, “but we will permit her to talk.” 

“And your betrothed?” 

“Oh!” said she, with a beautiful smile of triumph, 
“if he takes it badly, he will not be like himself, 
and I shall love him no longer!” 

She spoke in the sweet security of a trusting 
heart. The little scene that evening had given her 
a new faith in Raoul. Her father looked at her 
with tenderness mixed with compassion. Life 
would be rugged for this exquisite creature, too 
good, too pure, too ignorant of all evil. 

“You see, papa, she said cheerfully, “I have a 
little plan; it is this: Charles will be returning to 
India before many months; permit Sidonie to join 
him at Paris, where they v/ill be quietly married, and 
she will accompany him on his journey. We will 
announce their marriage after they are far away, and 
the gossip can do them no harm.” 

“ But ourselves!” 

“Oh! papa, I hope you and I are both superior 


44 


AURETTE. 


to such things! When they come back all will have 
been forgotten.” 

M. Leneil remained silent; at last he rose from 
his chair and said. 

« Go to bed now; it is late. But I must tell you 
that I am not in the least convinced. Should I ever 
give my consent to what at this moment I have 
decided to refuse, Sidonie can never truly be my 
daughter, and I will never forgive her for the mor- 
tification which her ingratitude and disloyalty have 
caused me. Good night, my child.” 

He drew her to him and kissed her, and as she 
ascended the staircase before him, with her candle 
in her hand, he looked at her with the tender pride 
of one who possesses a rare and only treasure. 


CHAPTER III. 


The next morning Aurette was, as usual, the first 
one to enter the dining-room. Julia had left home 
for the convent at six o’clock. M. Leneil was gen- 
erally the last to come down to breakfast. Sidonie 
appeared, more pale and silent than was customary; 
she kissed Aurette in an abstracted manner, then 
sat down and kept her eyes fixed on the door. 

In vain did Mile. Leniel endeavor to obtain from 
the companion of her childhood, some trivial word 
which would permit her to act as if nothing had 
happened. At last Charles came in, said good 
morning to his sister, extended his hand to Sidonie, 
then seated himself with an air of affected 
indifference. 

Aurette’s heart beat quickly. She was not very 
well versed in love affairs, but seeing them there 
together, she was convinced that they had met since 
the evening before; Sidonie, it was quite evident, 
knew the disposition of M. Leneil in regard to her. 

'‘Should papa discover it,” thought Aurette, “he 
would remain inflexible.” 


46 


AURETTE. 


M. Leneil was unusually late this morning, and, 
happily, he was too engrossed in his thoughts to 
look around him when he entered. He took his 
seat at the table and immediately began to read the 
morningpaper. After serving his chocolate, Aurette 
made a sign to Sidonie to follow her, thus leaving 
her father and brother tete-a-tete. 

Sidonie endeavored to avoid her in the vestibule, 
but Aurette with a wonderful display of authority, 
pushed her before her into the drawing-room. 

‘‘Listen to me,” she said, “How is it that you 
have allowed yourself to be influenced into acting 
so imprudently?” 

Sidonie threw back her head with a scornful air. 

“Fine words!” said she, “grand scenes! worthy 
of the romantic school of 1830. For the love of 
God, Aurette, spare me this. I am weary enough 
already, without your worrying me to death!” 

Mile. Leneil recoiled involuntarily; such language 
wounded and shocked her. Yet the natural for- 
bearance of her disposition made her suggest an 
excuse for the erring girl and she reproached her- 
self for her severity. 

“I have no desire to worry you,” she said, “but 
think for a moment what you have done, and what 


AURETTE. 


47 


interpretation might be placed upon it. If they 
knew — ” 

“They! Who?” asked Sidonie ironically. 

“The servants! ” replied Aurette, almost roughly. 
“If they knew that you had met Charles last night 
or this morning, in either case, clandestinely — ” 

“Well, this is absurd!” interrupted Sidonie, 
“your imagination has indeed led you astray! I 
did 'meet him yesterday evening, while you 
were conversing with M. Leneil. We were sitting 
on the stair-case, and when you opened the door, we 
separated. That is all.” 

It was very simple, surely; Aurette was 
confounded. 

“You expected him there?” she said in surprise. 

“Of course; it was a vital question to us, my 
dear! It is not very agreeable to remain in suspense.” 

“And if I had not gone down?” asked Aurette, 
fighting against a disagreeable conviction. 

“We would have waited until you were asleep. 
I could exist no longer; it was necessary to know 
at any price.” 

These words she uttered under her breath, with 
a hidden force which raised her somewhat in 


48 


AURETTE. 


Aurette’s estimation. As the victim of an over- 
powering, irresistible passion, Sidonie was much 
more excusable than she had imagined. 

“You know now,” said Mile. Leneil, “that my 
father will never give his consent; at least not at 
present. This is what he has said to my brother.” 

“Yes, I am not of a good enough family, nor 
rich enough, probably.” 

“ Do not be spiteful,” said Aurette authorita- 
tively, “you know well enough that money has noth- 
ing to do with it. As to family, my father might 
perhaps in time decide to overlook that, but — ” 

“When one doesn’t wish to do a thing there is 
always a but” said Sidonie sarcastically. 

“But,” continued Aurette without noticing the 
interruption, “these clandestine meetings were 
insulting to my father.” 

“If I had demanded his permission to love his 
son, do you believe he would have given it?” said 
Sidonie. 

“He would at least have had more respect for 
you!” retorted Aurette. 

“He would more likely have shown me the 
door,” said the orphan in a mocking tone. “ I am 
prepared for it.” 


AURETTE. 


49 


“Sidonie!” exclaimed Mile. Leneil, in a firm, 
gentle voice, “I pray you not to be wicked. If you 
are unfortunate enough to have wicked thoughts, at 
least have enough control over yourself not to speak 
them to me. I have been a true sister to you since 
the day my mother brought you to our home. How 
well I remember that day! You were so pale and 
slender — your black dress made you look more so; 
you were weeping — ” 

Sidonie turned away her eyes. 

“ Here is another sister,” said my mother to us. 
“You have perhaps forgotten it, but I remember it 
distinctly. I know that in embracing you I gave 
you all my friendship, and since then I have not 
withdrawn it, although — ” 

“Although I have been insupportable?” retorted 
Sidonie, without looking at her. 

“ No; but full of a pride that has at times ren- 
dered you unlovable.” 

The rebellious girl shrugged her shoulders in 
disdain. 

“What could you expect of me? The humilia- 
tions to which I have been subjected were almost 
unendurable to me, and my life has been made 
wretched.” 


50 


AURETTE. 


“ Not here, surely!” 

“ Here, as elsewhere. It was not your fault, I 
will admit. But that is not the question. What is 
to become of me? You of course know your father’s 
intentions.” 

“ I know absolutely nothing. But Sidonie, we 
all wish you well here; even my father is ready to 
excuse you — ” 

“So far as to consenting to the marriage?” 

“ I do not know, I believe not; for the present, 
at any rate; later on, perhaps. He is so good; be 
attentive and respectful to him; show yourself sub- 
missive and repentant.” 

“Like the heroines of virtuous books? I can 
not play that role, Aurette; sensibility was never 
my strong point.” 

Aurette turned away from her impatiently. Al- 
though she knew that Sidonie made herself appear 
worse than she really was, it annoyed her to see her 
take such an attitude. 

“ I ask myself why Charles loves you!” she said 
with vexation. 

“Why? there is no wherefore in these things. 
You love your great, dawdling affianced, and God 
knows I ask myself, on my side, what you can see 


AURETTE. 


51 


in him to admire! I love Charles and he loves me; 
that is all!” 

She spoke with a sincere ardor which redeemed 
the harshness of her words. Without resenting the 
direct attack on Raoul, Aurette rejoiced to hear at 
last, something fall from this young mouth which 
spoke in her favor. 

“If you love him truly,” said she sweetly, “be 
patient and hopeful. For my part, I will use every 
effort to induce my father to consent to the mar- 
riage.” 

Sidonie looked at her with a singular expres- 
sion in her eyes. She was not surprised at such a 
promise. As flippant and vain as she was, she could 
appreciate Aurette’s superiority, and in her heart 
she had counted upon her as a probable auxiliary 
when the critical moment should arrive. Her in- 
domitable pride had kept her from confiding in this 
elder sister, who was so wise and good. 

For an instant the good and bad struggled in her 
inconstant soul, then Sidonie seized Aurette by the 
shoulder, and shook her with a kind of savage ten- 
derness. 

“You are goodness itself, and all the other vir- 
tues!” said she, playfully, “It is really tiresome to 
4 


52 


AURETTE. 


live with so much perfection! It is humiliating, it is 
vexatious; it makes one wish to commit all sorts of 
follies. Aurette!” 

“Well?” said Aurette, who was listening with a 
sad smile. 

“If ever I am tempted to do anything very fool- 
ish or wicked, I will first think of you, and I believe 
firmly that the fear of grieving you will make me 
hesitate. If ever I commit a rash act, it will be 
because I have forgotten you.” 

Then Sidonie kissed Aurette so energetically 
that the blood receded from her delicate face; and 
went quietly out of the room. 

In the meantime, M. Leneil had been conversing 
seriously with Charles. His daughter’s idea of 
allowing the young people to marry, away from 
Angers, had removed some of the difficulties 
aroused by this projected marriage. The resolve to 
have Aurette’s marriage take place beforehand had 
removed all others, from a worldly point of view. 
The situation became more clear; disengaged from 
all but the personal sentiments of a father. 

M. Leneil was ready to suffer much for the hap- 
piness of his children. Had his son chosen a young 
girl from some poor but honorable family, and if, 


AURETTE. 


53 


before committing himself, he had consulted his 
father, he would have made no objection, for his was 
a generous soul. 

But under the existing circumstances he was far 
from believing that a marriage with Sidonie would 
render Charles happy. In the near future he fore- 
saw for him, not only the ennui and disappointments 
which come to a man from the outside world, but 
those of a more serious nature, which would eman- 
ate from his domestic life. 

He did not believe in the disinterestedness of 
Sidonie’s affection. He was certain that she had 
set about capturing his son with the sole idea of 
securing a position in the world. He desired, how- 
ever, to give the young girl an opportunity to prove 
that her sentiments were more noble than those 
with which he had credited her, so he had decided 
upon a course which seemed to him entirely just: 
Charles must wait two years, and if when Sidonie 
reached her twenty-first year they both had remained 
constant, he would no longer withhold his consent. 
Up tothattimeinviolablesecrecy should beobserved, 
in default of which, all should be at an end between 
them. 


54 


AURETTE. 


In his heart, M. Leneil did not believe in the 
strength of Sidonie’s affection to stand so long a 
test. He confided this decision to his son with a 
gentleness under which Charles could detect an 
inexorable firmness. 

“During these two years,” said he, “Sidonie will 
remain with us as in the past. There must be no 
clandestine correspondence; your sisters and I will 
keep you au courant of all which would interest you. 
If in the interval, you change your mind — ” 

Without noticing Charles’ gesture of denial he 
continued: 

“Sidonie will receive twice as large a sum as I 
had intended for her dowry; as much to render 
homage to your mother, who morally adopted her, 
as to offer a kind of reparation for any prejudice 
caused by your infidelity. If it is she who changes; 
if she should grow tired of waiting, she will only 
receive the portion I had reserved for her originally. 
Does not all this appear to you just and reasonable?” 

“Father,” said Charles, after a moment’s hesita- 
tion, “it is just and reasonable, but two years is 
so long to wait! ” 

“Not when you expect to love a whole lifetime,” 
replied M. Leneil. “If you marry Sidonie with my 


AURETTE. 


55 


consent, I must have some sort of guarantee of your 
happiness. Two years is long if one loves but a lit- 
tle; it is nothing when one loves deeply and sin- 
cerely. You will thank me later on for making you 
wait.” 

Without demanding or receiving a response, he 
rang the bell for a servant, to whom he gave the order 
to request Mile. Sidonie to come to him. During 
the short time which elapsed before she appeared, 
the father and son remained silent. 

Charles was agitated with conflicting emotions. 
He knew that his father had acted toward him with 
great moderation, and even kindness, but at the 
same time he was almost certain that Sidonie would 
not agree to his terms. If the two years of waiting 
appeared to him so hard to endure, it would be intol- 
erable to the wilful, rebellious nature of his betrothed. 
He confessed to himself, not without a secret shame, 
that she had not awakened in him what was best and 
most noble in his being, and he felt vaguely that 
they would not be happy together. His nature, as 
fine and tender as Aurette’s, needed a confidence 
and sympathy with which Sidonie was far from 
inspiring him. She irritated him as often as she 
charmed him, and if she had not desired it so 


56 


AURETTE. 


ardently, so violently, he would never have dreamed 
of marrying her; at the first sting of love he would 
have taken refuge in flight. 

She desired it, and from the first her tyrannical dis- 
position made her take advantage of the more yield- 
ing nature of her lover; her despotic young soul finding 
in him the submission so dear to a potentate. After 
awhile she really loved him as deeply as it was in 
her nature to love anyone; then the triumph of 
entering (she, the despised one, marked with original 
sin) one of the best families of the proud bourgeoise 
of Angers, the pleasure of being able to vanquish 
those who had scorned her, whetted her desire for 
the conquest. She wished to marry Charles Leneil, 
and she would do so at any price. Charles divined 
this partly, and it saddened him profoundly; but 
each time that his father spoke of the possibility of 
his giving up Sidonie, he fek a cruel pang at the 
mere thought of anything so terrible. 

Sidonie entered the room with a haughty air, but 

with downcast eyes. The agitation and inquietude 

caused by suspense had given to her features, which 

were a little too pronounced, a rare delicacy which 

rendered her infinitely beautiful. M. Leneil re- 
» ^ 
marked it and confessed to himself that his son was 


AURETTE. 


57 


not altogether to be blamed for being tempted by 
the piquant, fantastic charm of this beauty. 

In a few words he told her of his decision, 
restrained from any severity by her attitude, out- 
wardly proper, but which was entirely too correct 
to be natural. He did not look at her till he had 
finished speaking, and then she had lowered her 
eyes. Had he seen the glance she threw upon 
Charles, he would have instantly recalled his words, 
and thus have averted many misfortunes, but he did 
not see it. 

“Do you accept my conditions?’’ 

She bowed her head in assent, and left the room 
immediately, not daring to show any undue precipi- 
tation, however. What more could he ask of her? 

Charles thanked his father in words which lacked 
warmth and sincerity. Had M. Leneil a right to 
expect more of him? Yet his paternal heart was 
wounded at this coldness. But his lofty philosophy 
and natural indulgence of heart inspired him with 
a feeling of pity for these two young people to 
whose union he was so bitterly opposed. 

“ After all,” said he, “Charles cannot leave until 
to-morrow, so they will have ample time to say 
adieu to-day.” 


53 


AURETTE. 


It was a long and painful day to every one. Un- 
til evening, Sidonie ostensibly avoided all occasion 
for conversation with Charles, whom she was now 
at liberty to regard as her affianced lover. She 
remained near Aurette, following her into every 
nook and corner with so much insistence that Mile. 
Leneil grew weary of it. 

After dinner, as usual, the whole family was 
assembled upon the terrace, but each one observed 
a lugubrious silence. At last, Aurette gave her 
father an imploring look which he comprehended. 
After some hesitation he addressed himself to 
Charles. 

“ Why not take Sidonie for a stroll in the park?” 
said he, “Aurette will keep me company.” 

His daughter thanked him with a tender smile, 
and the strange lovers, without uttering a word, or 
without glancing at each other, descended the steps 
together, and soon disappeared at the corner of a 
walk already enveloped in shadows. 

The hour was exquisitely calm ; the stars twinkled 
in the heavens, and one planet of a dazzling brill- 
iancy, outshone the splendor of the clouds still 
rosy with the flush of sunset. The blackbirds 
whistled far and near in the groves embalmed with 


AURETTE. 


59 


honeysuckle. Aurette never forgot this evening; 
every star in the sky seemed to sink its diamond 
point into her heart. 

The two lovers walked for a long time in the 
shadow of the great, dense trees. Now and then 
Sidonie’s white dress would gleam in the darkness 
at the end of the avenue as they approached the 
house, to disappear the next moment as they turned 
into some other walk. They walked slowly and 
not a sound of either voice could be heard. 

The interview was so prolonged that M. Leneil 
grew restless. 

“Call them,” he said to Aurette who sat beside 
him in silence. 

As if his words had been wafted to them, the 
young people appeared upon the esplanade and re- 
turned to the house. 

Charles shook hands with his father, kissed his 
sister and went immediately to his room. Sidonie 
sat down near Aurette, and remained silent and im- 
movable, with her eyes fixed obstinately upon the 
avenue, now so dark and lonely, where she had just 
been with her lover. 

This cold immobility weighed heavily upon M. 
Leneil, and he gave the signal for them to retire 


6o 


AURETTE. 


much earlier than usual. Sidonie only left Aurette 
upon the threshold of her chamber, and kept her 
lamp burning until daylight, so that the ray of light 
under her door might be a sure guarantee of her 
presence. The next morning Charles was gone. 


CHAPTER IV. 

To the dwellers in the Nest, the following week 
seemed twice as long as usual, and each one ardently 
longed for Sunday, to interrupt the current of pain- 
ful thoughts which destiny had so unexpectedly 
thrust upon them. 

It was the second Sunday of the Consecration, 
and the same religious pomp would be renewed. 
Julia had been excused from taking any part in the 
procession on account of her extreme fatigue the 
first time, and she was to arrive at the Nest Saturday 
evening toremain until Monday morning. Aurette’s 
heart stood still at the thought of announcing to 
her sister her father’s verdict in regard to Charles 
and Sidonie. She knew that Julia would strongly 
oppose it, for even in her childhood, at the begin- 
ning of their life in common, she had never been 
able to feel any sympathy for a nature which was 
so different from her own. To have her for a sister- 
in-law would be to her intolerable! Aurette, although 


62 


AURETTE. 


a very courageous person, almost dreaded the out- 
burst of rage from Julia, which she knew would 
follow her announcement of what had happened. 

On her return from the convent, Saturday eve- 
ning, her delicate face was pale with the heat and 
exhaustion, (for the young girl applied herself to 
her studies in a most arduous fashion, in order to 
have them definitely ended at an early day) and 
Aurette’s heart was touched with pity. So she 
resolved to spare her, for that evening at least. 

Since the departure of Charles, Sidonie had made 
herself impenetrable; she never alluded to her mar- 
riage; not a word of gratitude or of complaint ever 
passed her lips. To M. Leneil she was coldly polite, 
to Aurette she was indifferent, without being rude. 
She seemed to have forgotten the fit of brusque ten- 
derness which had made her, for once in her life, 
express her true sentiments. To have seen her in 
this household, one could not have doubted, in spite 
of M. Leneil’s restrictions, that her position was in 
reality changed. 

The following day the two sisters prepared to 
attend mass at Saint Maurice; their father, who was 
suffering somewhat from the excessive heat, had 


AURETTE. 63 

concluded not to accompany them, but advised them 
to take Sidonie with them. 

When the carriage was announced Aurette 
knocked at Sidonie’s door, but there was no 
response. After waiting a moment she entered 
and looked around her. This room was unlike the 
apartments of most young girls, inasmuch as there 
v/as nothing there to testify to the individuality of 
its occupant. It was more like the branch upon 
which a bird perches, than the nest where it dwells. 

Having assured herself that Sidonie was not there, 
Aurette left the room, closing the door behind her, 
and went to send a servant in search of her. 

To her great astonishment, she learned that Mile. 
Sidonie had left on foot an hour previous, saying 
that she was going to mass. 

“What a strange idea!” thought Aurette, “Al- 
ways the same pride! ” 

She stifled a sigh; Julia descended the staircase 
ready to accompany her; there was no longer a 
means of deferring the disagreeable communication, 
so she resigned herself to it. 

Contrary to her expectations, there was no 
angry outburst: Julia listened with downcast eyes 
and compressed lips, now and then uttering an 


6 4 


AURETTE. 


exclamation of surprise. When Aurette finished 
speaking, she still remained silent. 

“Julia! ” said she, .“ are you never going to speak 
again? It were better for you to unburden your 
soul at once!” 

They were in the carriage alone, nearing the 
cathedral. 

“I,” said the young girl slowly, “consider it dis- 
gusting. If you wish to know what I think I will 
tell you.” 

“You must be indulgent,” said Aurette, in a 
reproachful tone. 

“I am not. One dismisses a chambermaid for 
less than this.” 

“Oh! Julia! Hush!” 

“And a chambermaid would be less culpable. 
You know, Aurette, I always say what I feel.” 

“I hope that some day you will feel otherwise,” 
said Aurette. 

The carriage was crossing Saint Aubin street, 
not far from the cathedral, when Julia started 
violently. 

“What is the matter?’' exclaimed her sister. 

“Yonder they are!” 

“Who?” 


AURETTE. 


65 


“ Charles and Sidonie! ” 

“You are dreaming; Charles is at Paris.” 

Julia shrugged her shoulders impatiently. 

“I tell you that I saw them in that street, arm 
in arm.” 

“Where?” 

“Stop, Joseph!” cried Julia. 

The coachman stopped his horses, and Aurette 
looked in the direction indicated. 

“You were mistaken,” said she, with a;i expres- 
sion of boundless relief. 

' Without responding, Julia stepped from the 
carriage and walked a short distance into Saint 
Aubin street. Greatly agitated, Aurette asked her- 
self whether she should follow her, when she saw her 
stop before the porte-cochere of the hotel Cheval 
Blanc. 

It was luncheon hour, and a number of gentle- 
men were walking in the direction of the hotel res- 
taurant, which was famous for its cooking. Several 
officers from a neighboring garrison were chatting 
together, and a number of students in elegant uni- 
forms from the cavalry school at Saumur were ap- 
proaching the place in groups of two and three: all 
these stared at Julia to discover vi ho was this audacious 


66 


. AURETTE. 


young person. But she did not see them. Just as 
she stopped before the entrance, Charles, with Sid- 
onie on his arm, disappeared at the corner opposite 
the little court. There were several town men in 
the crowd around the door who looked at Julia and 
wondered why the daughter of the rich M. Leneil 
was there alone at this hour. At last she grew con- 
scious of her role, and with a dash of crimson on 
her cheeks she returned to the carriage just as 
Aurette had risen to join her. 

“They are there/’ said /Julia in a stifled voice, 
“in the restaurant.” 

At this moment their father’s notary passed the 
carriage with his wife and children, on their way to 
mass. He lifted his hat to them, with an air as 
astonished as respectful, at seeing his client’s daugh- 
ters so excited and bewildered. 

The officers and students at the porte cochere were 
looking toward the carriage exchanging humorous 
remarks. 

“Are you certain?” demanded Aurette, who felt 
her ears burning, and a mist before her eyes. 

“Entirely certain. You had better ask if, being 
at the Cheval Blanc, the whole world does not know 
it!” 


AURETTE. 


67 


Aurette felt the necessity of making an immedi- 
ate resolution. Their agitation had been too pro- 
nounced to resort to half measures. 

“ Drive to the Hotel Cheval Blanc,” she said to 
the coachman. 

Joseph, more amazed than ever before in his life, 
obeyed. Aurette stepped out in the midst of the 
crowd of military men and civilians who respect- 
fully made way for her. A waiter met her at the 
door with a napkin on his arm. 

“Is my brother, M. Charles Leneil, here?” she 
asked in a firm voice. 

“Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“Since last evening?” 

“ No, mademoiselle, only since half-past ten this 
morning.” 

“ Is he in his room?” 

“No, mademoiselle, he has just gone into the 
restaurant.” 

Another waiter who had drawn near nudged his 
companion in the side with his elbow. He did not 
know Sidonie, and would have been too discreet to 
reveal to a young man’s family when he break- 
fasted at the restaurant with a lady! 

5 


68 


AURETTE. 


“ Very well,” said Aurette, “do not disturb him. 
Many thanks.” 

She quietly walked back to the carriage, and 
being seated, gave the order to drive home. Two 
or three familiar faces appeared to her through the 
mist that rose before her eyes. She bowed to them 
without distinguishing one from the other. Julia, 
who was more the mistress of herself, took note of 
everything in a way to recall it later on. 

Surprised at their prompt return, M. Leneil 
hastened to the steps to meet them. At the sight 
of the pale faces of the two girls he knew that some 
misfortune had befallen them, and far from suspect- 
ing the truth, his thoughts ran in an opposite direc- 
tion. 

“Has she committed suicide?” said he in a 
startled manner, suddenly seized with a mortal fear. 

“My God!” cried Julia, springing to the ground 
and hastening to him. He looked at her without 
being able to articulate a word. Aurette took his 
other arm and together they almost carried him to 
a sofa. 

“What has happened?” he said at last, his lips 
parched with anguish. 


AURETTE. 


69 


“Oh! nothing!” said Julia quickly, “only she is 
at this moment dining with Charles at the Cheval 
Blanc, in sight of the whole town.” 

M. Leneil looked alternately from one to the 
other, as if he hoped to hear that it was not true. 
With more calmness and circumspection, Aurette 
convinced him of the sad truth. 

“ Great God!” cried he, “What have they done? 
Dishonored us?” 

“I do not know, papa; Charles arrived from 
Paris this morning at half past ten, and Sidonie left 
on foot, only ten minutes ahead of us,” said Aurette. 

M. Leneil rose with a strength of which he had 
not believed himself capable. 

“ I hope the carriage is still at the door,” he said, 
“ I must go there immediately.” 

“ Papa,” said Aurette in an imploring voice, “do 
not go alone, I beg of you!” 

“Very well, I will take my valet on the coach 
box. Adieu!” 

He embraced them hurriedly and stepped into 
the carriage which awaited him at the door. From 
the manner in which he gave his orders to Joseph, 
the old coachman understood that time was precious, 


70 


AURETTE. 


and in spite of the burning sun, never had his horses 
displayed more ardor. 

Arriving before the Hotel Cheval Blanc, M. 
Leneil beckoned to a waiter who began to compre- 
hend that the affair was growing serious. 

“ Is my son here?” he said briefly. 

“ I think so, sir, he was here a moment ago.” 

“Request him to come to me.” 

The boy went into the restaurant, now nearly 
deserted, where Charles and Sidonie, mute before 
their empty coffee cups, had the air of criminals 
rather than of two lovers alone in each other’s 
company. 

“ M. Leneil wishes to speak to you, sir,” said the 
waiter in an undertone. 

“Come,” said Charles to Sidonie. 

She rose and followed him. He threw some 
money to the boy, then went out to the car- 
riage. Everyone at the hotel hearing of an adven- 
ture, was assembled there as if by chance. 

“Get into the carriage,” said M. Leneil briefly. 

Sidonie got in first. 

“Sit beside me,” said M. Leneil. 

She obeyed. Her heart was beating wildly, but 
her countenance was unchanged. 


AURETTE. 


71 


“To the Nest,” was his order to the coachman. 
“Take us by the Mall and the Boulevard, and do not 
drive too rapidly.” 

The carriage turned into the principal streets of 
the town which were gaily decked for the proces- 
sion. A number of people were out of doors and 
at the windows arranging the decorations for the 
afternoon. Nearly all the tradesmen knew the rich 
banker and saluted him as he passed. The women 
were already cognizant of the strange episode of 
the morning, so they looked at Sidonie with more 
of curiosity than good-will. But she remained 
impenetrable and unmoved. Charles wished him- 
self a hundred leagues away, and in spite of a great 
effort, he could not conceal his annoyance; M. 
Leneil returned the salutations, and endured the 
gaze of the curious, with a wonderful sang froid . 

But at last the punishment came to an end, and 
the carriage turned into the road which led to the 
Nest. It was a relief no longer to be a prey to all 
those glances, but the crisis was imminent. Finally 
they arrived, and without delay the family united 
in the drawing-room. 

With a gesture, M. Leneil dismissed his daughters; 


72 


AURETTE. 


his knees trembled beneath him, and he was com- 
pelled to sit down. The culprits remained standing. 

“What was your object in behaving as you have 
done?” he demanded of them without any pre- 
liminary. 

Sidonie did not respond; one Would have said 
she had not heard. Charles looked his father in 
the face, with a mixture of pity and tenderness. 
He was an honorable young fellow, weak, but good 
and sincere; he was conscious of the wrong he had 
done, and his heart was torn with regret; then too, 
the role which he had played for several months 
had weighed heavily upon him, and he was almost 
happy to discard it at last. 

“I came from Paris last night,” said he. “Sidonie 
joined me a little before noon this morning in the 
cathedral, and we were about to start for the station 
without delay, when you found us. We intended to 
take the four o’clock train for Paris. You would 
have received the announcement of our departure 
before dinner, and we would have demanded your 
consent to our marriage.” 

“Why did you show yourselves together pub- 
licly?” asked M. Leneil. 


AURETTE. 


73 


For the first time, Charles comprehended the 
true import of his action, and it appeared to him in 
so odious a light that he was struck with terror. 
When Sidonie had convinced him that the two years’ 
test decreed by his father was absurd and unendur- 
able, fascinated by her, his mind confused by the 
subtlety of the arguments she employed, he had 
acquiesced in a scheme in which she almost forced 
him to take a part. He had performed it in a kind 
of moral torpor, mixed with nervous impatience, 
powerless to resist the spell which she cast over 
him. During their short separation he had received a 
letter from her daily, which kept him in a state of 
half- hallucination and left him no time for reflec- 
tion; now, in the face of a direct interrogation, he 
felt that he had acted like a malefactor, so he bowed 
his head without responding. 

Sidonie came to the rescue. She saw a strange 
light in M. Leneil’s eyes, and she felt that she must 
bear her part of the responsibility. 

“We knew,” said she, “how you respected pub- 
lic opinion; it was the fear of public opinion that 
made you refuse to give a real consent to our mar- 
riage, for the test of two years was only a means to 
separate us eventually; we did not believe that you 


74 


AURETTE. 


would hesitate long after it was rumored in town 
that we were affianced.” 

“ Do you know any gentleman who would take 
his affianced wife into a public restaurant ? ” said 
M. Leneil with terrible irony. “ It is this: you knew 
that I would no longer refuse my consent to your 
marriage if they said you were my son’s mistress! 
You thought that the old banker would honor his 
engagements; that he would not allow the world to 
say that he had not safely guarded you under his 
own roof. You have laid your plans wisely! And 
if by chance I decline to approve them? ” 

Sidonie lifted her chin, cast down her eyes and 
remained silent. Charles took a step toward his 
father who waved him back haughtily. 

‘‘Father,” he cried, “I know that we are culpable; I 
feel it cruelly. I swear to you, however, that our only 
object was to obtain your consent more speedily.” 

“I understand,” said M. Leneil with sarcasm. 

“Sidonie is pure,” continued Charles, “she has 
not lost her self-respect, and as great as our offense 
is, it is not so great as you seem to believe.” 

“ Pure? Materially, that may be; morally, she is 
degraded. I would be glad to know, I say it in all 
sincerity, that you had taken this means to repair a 


AURETTE. 75 

fault! You would then have invoked the excuse of 
youth and passion! Pure? She who has deceived, 
lied, betrayed! Go! you have succeeded! you will 
be my son’s wife, but never my daughter!” 

Sidonie kept on her mask of impassibility. His 
consent to their marriage, hurled at her like a curse, 
did not even make her tremble. 

“You desire to be married promptly; you shall 
be in ten days. Your engagement will be announced 
this evening. Charles will leave for Paris this after- 
noon to remain until the ceremony. During this 
time Sidonie will stay here, but bear in mind, young 
woman, that the consequences of this act, sooner 
or later, in time or in eternity, will fall upon your 
head!” 

In spite of her obduracy, Sidonie could not re- 
press a rapid glance thrown at her accomplice; M. 
Leneil caught it in its passage. 

“My son was good,” said he, “and honest; he 
loved his father; he was esteemed by every one, and 
merited this esteem; you have destroyed a beautiful 
past; what future have you to offer, to replace it?” 

“Father!” cried Charles, his eyes full of burning 
tears, and his heart devoured by remorse, “ I im- 
plore you to have pity.” 


;6 


AURETTE. 


M. Leneil turned away his head without answer- 
ing him. 

“Some day,” cried the unfortunate young man 
in a changed voice, “ some day I will win back your 
love. You will not withhold your forgiveness when 
you see my repentance?” 

“ I cannot tell,” replied his father, “ yet you are 
my son, and I have loved you tenderly; but defend 
me from your wife! I will never forgive her! Leave 
me.” 

They left the room, like an Adam and Eve 
driven from a celestial Paradise. When they were 
alone in the vestibule, Charles turned to Sidonie 
with a look of despair. 

“My life is ruined forever,” said he, “My father 
will never forgive me.” 

“They always say that,” she replied calmly, 
“ but they always end by pardoning.” 


CHAPTER V. 

Instead of coming an hour or two in advance, as 
was j^er custom, Mme. Bertholon arrived just as the 
bell rang for dinner; she was cold and smiling as 
usual, with an inexhaustible supply of small talk, 
with which she kept up the conversation at the 
table. Without being intimidated by Raoul’s taci- 
turnity, Julia’s morose manner, the troubled expres- 
sion on Aurette’s face, or the visible agitation of M. 
Leneil, the monotonous flow of her conversation 
continued uninterruptedly. Sidonie alone replied 
to her, with a bravado which drew upon her indig- 
nant glances from Julia. 

The wind was fresh and the terrace looked unin- 
viting, so coffee was served in the drawing-room. 
When the servant had disappeared with the tray, 
M. Leneil approached Mme. Bertholon and spoke 
to her in an undertone of Sidonie’s engagement and 
early marriage. 

“Ah! really!” said she, “ is it decided entirely?” 
My congratulations!” and nodding her head slightly 


;s 


AURETTE. 


in the direction of Sidonie, she then looked at 
Aurette significantly. 

“They told me of it in town this morning,” she 
continued, leaving the embarrassed object of her 
contemplation, to turn again to M. Leneil, “but I 
hardly credited it. You know one hears such extra- 
ordinary things! If one believed all they say! ^3ut 
why is Charles not here? Has he gone?” 

Julia felt an irresistible desire to say something 
disagreeable to Mme. Bertholon, and she would 
have perhaps done so, had it not been for the sor- 
rowful manner in which Aurette regarded their 
father. 

Sidonie replied with an air of modest sincerity. 

“He was forced to leave for Paris, madam; he 
will return just before the marriage.” 

“Ah!” 

This was all. Aurette, who was urged for some 
music, went to the piano and played several insig- 
nificant pieces. She felt in no humor to pour out 
her soul into her music, and it seemed to her that 
she was far above the earth, in some cold, dreary 
world where she could find no one who loved her. 

Her lover’s presence, which had made these Sun- 
day evenings so sweet to her, now only increased 


AURETTE. 


79 


her agitation. Silent, and in an ill-humor, Raoul 
appeared so changed to her that she did not know 
him; she felt a desire to weep, like a little child 
frightened at the sight of a stranger. 

The rolling of wheels on the gravel was heard 
long before the accustomed hour, and Mme. Ber- 
tholon rose and took leave of them with her same 
eternal smile, which was so cold that it almost 
seemed frozen. 

“Oh!” cried Aurette, with an agitation altogether 
out of proportion to so trifling an occurrence, “I 
have forgotten my bouquet to-day! I beg you a 
thousand pardons, Madam.” 

“It makes no difference; it is of no importance, 
my dear,” replied the old lady, never ceasing to 
smile. 

“I am so distressed!” repeated Aurette. She 
looked at Raoul who was absorbed in contemplating 
the varnished tips of his boots. He approached 
her, however, and pressed her hand with so much 
force that it hurt her. When she felt his hand close 
on her poor bruised fingers, a warm glow stole into 
her heart, and she had quite recovered herself when 
she conducted her future mother-in-law to the car- 


nage. 


8o 


AURETTE. 


When they had gone, Sidonie took her candle in 
the vestibule, nodded a hasty good-night to the rest 
of the family, and went up to her room without a 
moment’s delay. Aurette followed her father into 
the drawing-room, and Julia, who was accustomed 
to retire when she chose, drew her chair close to her 
sister. 

“Aurette,” said she, “ it will be impossible for 
me to return to the convent as long as this marriage 
has not taken place. If for the next ten days, I 
hear this ridiculous episode repeated over and over 
again, I am capable of conducting myself in such a 
way as to lose the good name I have made for eight 
years of irreproachable conduct.” 

Aurette glanced at her father who was listening, 
and who bowed his head in acquiescence. 

“Thank you, papa, ” said Julia. “ Now another 
thing; if I am forced to endure Sidonie’s presence 
here for ten days longer, I am equally capable of 
acting toward her in the rudest manner possible; 
and I believe you both feel the same way. What 
will you do?” 

It was an embarrassing case. M. Leneil and his 
daughters discussed it for nearly an hour, and ended 


AURETTE. 


8l 


by concluding that there was no escape from the 
mortifications which awaited them. 

“ It will be a tearful wedding,” said Julia, “ if one 
is not too much enraged to weep. Will you invite 
all of Angers, papa?” 

They agreed that the marriage should be as 
simple as possible. They would send out a number 
of announcements immediately after the ceremony; 
the invitations to the wedding breakfast should be 
limited to four witnesses, selected from the most 
trusted and honorable of M. Leneil’s friends. » 

“Ah well!” said Julia, when these details had 
been arranged; “if I am obliged to see her I need 
not speak to her; this is, at least, one consolation.” 

Embracing her father and sister, she said good- 
night and left them. M. Leneil remained alone 
with Aurette, who sat near him holding his hand. 
For several moments they did not speak, but their 
silence was eloquent, and never had they felt more 
intensely how greatly reciprocal love softens the 
ills of life. 

“Mme. Bertholon is a strange woman,” said 
M. Leneil, after awhile, “ one never knows what 
she really thinks. She was perfectly familiar with 
it all before she came here.” 


f 




82 AURETTE. 

' 

“Think of it, papa! Not she alone, but there is 
not a respectable house at Angers in which they are 
not discussing our adventure, at this very moment!” 

She spoke with a sad resignation, free from bit- 
terness; since she had felt the pressure of her 
lover’s fingers she had been full of a new courage. 

“ Sidonie must have a trousseau and a wedding 
dress,” said Aurette. 

M. Leneil turned away his eyes. 

“ Give her money for what is necessary,” said he 
with a sort of disgust,” I have reserved twenty-five 
thousand francs for her; you may take from this 
sum all that you need.” 

“Will you permit me to accompany her to make 
the purchases, papa? If you do not, people will 
think that you are opposed to the marriage.” 

“Which is the exact truth. No, she must go 
alone. It seems to me that now she ought to bear 
all the shame; do not expose yourself to useless 
suffering.” 

His daughter realized that he faas right. They 
sat together conversing for a long time. Aurette 
did not leave him until she believed him sufficiently 
fatigued to sleep easily; she would have been 
frightened had she seen the dose of chloral which 




AURETTE. 83 

an hour later he^was forced to take in order to get a 
little rest. 

Sidonie entered officially upon her role of fiancee 
with graceful ease, and took complete possession 
of the carriage of her future father-in-law to visit 
the various shops to make her purchases, and order 
the most expensive costumes. Having infinitely 
good taste, she avoided the mistake of parvenues, 
and chose neither the most brilliant nor conspicuous 
in any fashion, but her wedding dress and traveling 
costume were so artistic that they made an epoch 
in a town where they knew well how to dress. 

She would return to the Nest only at meal times. 
A feigned indisposition on the part of Julia explained 
her presence at home, and Aurette’s non-participa- 
tion in the preparations of her sister-in-law. Mme. 
Bertholon, in a coldly polite note, excused herself 
and son from dining with them the following Sunday. 

“In order,” she wrote, “not to hinder the prepar- 
ations which must occupy all the time and thoughts 
of the inhabitants of the Nest.” 

M. Leneil, after reading it, handed the note to 
Aurette without commenting on it. Mme. Ber- 
tholon’s diplomatic ways displeased him, but he 
anticipated, on account of the gossip of which his 


84 


AURETTE. 


family was now the object, an increased coldness on 
her part. He hoped, as soon as the marriage had 
taken place, to explain to her, through the media- 
tion of her notary, that she would be unwise to 
change anything in the existing state of affairs, and 
knowing her interested, he resolved, if necessary, to 
greatly increase the dowry promised to Aurette. 

The bans were no sooner published, than all 
his friends came by turns to entreat him not to yield 
so quickly to so unhappy an affair. The principal 
argument was that the young lady was not only 
compromised with Charles, but they attributed to 
her several other escapades; this marriage would 
not mend matters, and would only serve to 
awaken prejudice against his family. What could 
the wretched father reply? Even though he 
should forbid the marriage, would he not be 
blamed? So he contented himself with thanking his 
friends and assuring them of Sidonie’s innocence. 
At night, in order to sleep, he was entirely depend- 
ent on soporifics, which he took in such quantities 
that he was almost unconscious, and several days 
before the marriage he was roused from this state of 
physical torpor by violent shocks, the result of his 
overwrought nerves. 


AURETTE. 


85 


Aurette, in great alarm, sent for the doctor, who 
instantly deprived him of his bromide, ether and 
chloral, and ordered baths to produce a drowsiness; 
and finally M. Leneil was sufficiently restored to be 
present at the ceremony on the day of the marriage. 

“Should this last three days longer,” he said to 
Aurette, “I could not exist; one cannot burn the 
candle at both ends without rapidly wasting one’s 
life away.” 

The ceremony was performed on the appointed 
day. The cathedral, to which no one was invited, 
contained the whole town, (except their real friends, 
who refrained from coming) some of whom even 
climbed over the prie-dieu to see the bride. She 
walked proudly up the aisle with her head held high, 
but her eyes modestly cast down, and floating behind 
her were billows of white tulle looped with snowy 
orange blossoms. She was so beautiful that the 
spectators forgot to notice the bridegroom, whose 
pale, emaciated countenance could not have failed 
to call forth comment. 

Aurette and Julia followed their father, attired 
in very simple robes, which were severely criticised. 
When the little cortege returned to the carriages, 


86 


AURETTE. 


Aurette was pained to see the waiters from the Che- 
val Blanc running to the street corner to admire the 
wedding party to whom they had so ably lent their 
assistance. 

The breakfast was very unceremonious; the four 
witnesses were M. Rozel, the physician, the family 
notary, Charles’ god-father, and an old cashier, who 
had been in the employ of the bank for more than 
thirty years. They were all reserved persons, and 
too familiar with the circumstances to endeavor to 
play a useless role. The repast was quickly over, 
and Sidonie went to her room to put on her travel- 
ing dress; the guests all took their leave, except M. 
Rozel, who decided to remain until the departure of 
the bridal pair, in order to see how his old friend 
would stand the inevitable prostration which would 
follow the intense excitement. Charles remained 
with them. He had endeavored to approach his 
father to speak affectionately to him, but M. Leneil 
avoided him. In despair, the unfortunate young 
man made a sign to the doctor to follow him into 
the park. 

“ I know what you desire,” said the doctor, before 
Charles could speak, “You wish to obtain your 
father’s forgiveness. I beg of you to pardon my 


AURETTE. 


87 


brusque frankness; I have been a friend of your 
family since the birth of your elder sister, and I 
sincerely mourned the loss of your adorable mother, 
who was so good, so generous — too generous. So I 
have a kind of right to consider myself one of you, 
and consequently at liberty to speak without evasion. 
It is useless to seek any understanding with your 
father at this time, and you must write him nothing 
of an exciting nature. You must treat him as a 
very sick man to whom a shock might prove fatal.” 

Charles bowed his head in sorrow. 

“ Doctor,” said he, “ do you think he will ever 
forgive me?” 

After a moment’s hesitation, M. Rozel replied: 

“ My dear boy, your father, thank God, is neither 
wicked nor foolish; he is deeply offended, but he 
will finally pardon his son; but it will take time. ,, 

“Do you think he will live long enough for me 
to win his forgiveness?” said Charles, lowering his 
voice. 

Touched by a grief so profound, which sought 
neither evasions nor subterfuges, M. Rozel placed 
his hand upon the shoulder of the unhappy young 


man. 


88 


AURETTE. 


“I hope so, I hope so;” said he cheerfully, “you 
have a powerful advocate in your sister, Aurette. 
She has a noble soul, pure and compassionate. By 
her help, and for her, your father will recover, and 
if he lives, he will surely pardon you. I believe 
that he will refuse her nothing which she demands 
of him.” 

They walked alone in silence for a short time, 
when the doctor stopped Charles at the end of the 
avenue. 

“Tell me,” he said kindly, “why you did such 
an inconceivable thing. I do not wish to wound 
you, but if your object was to force your father’s 
hand, why did you not go directly to Paris with her 
who is now your wife? It could have been done 
without scandal.” 

“Yes, I understand it now,” said Charles sadly, 
“but I feared that my father, believing us illegally 
married, would continue to refuse his consent more 
firmly than ever.” 

“You thought this?” said the doctor with an in- 
credulous air, “you know your father very little 
then.” 

As Charles did not respond, the excellent man 
divined truly that this bridegroom of a few hours 


AURETTE. 89 

had very little to do with a scheme perfected in 
every detail by Sidonie. 

When the moment for their departure arrived 
the young people went to take leave of their father. 
M. Leneil, with difficulty standing, received them 
coldly. To Sidonie he made a courteous, frigid 
bow. His son advanced to embrace him: he avoided 
a scene and contented himself with offering hirr>his 
hand. 

Charles felt the burning tears filling his eyes at 
the touch of that hand, so loyal, so tender, which 
responded so feebly to his pressure. He would 
gladly have given his life at this moment to have 
undone the suffering he had caused his father the 
past month. But there is no reparation in regrets, 
and the irrevocable was accomplished. 

Sidonie coldly touched the lips of Aurette and 
Julia, then left the house, followed by her husband, 
who had lingered a moment to hold his elder sister 
in his arms and to whisper in her ear his last injunc- 
tions. 

“ Love him, care for him, teach him to forgive 
me; write to me, write to me often; tell me every- 
thing, oh! my dear sister!” 


go 


AURETTE. 


She pressed his hand tenderly, with a look which 
warned him to spare their father, and he tore him- 
self from the beloved old Nest whose doors he had 
opened to so many sorrows. 

When they had really gone, M. Leneil looked 
about him with a bewildered air. 

“I am very tired,” he said, putting his hand to 
his brow, “and I wish to sleep; will it harm me, 
doctor, to rest for a moment here on the sofa?” 

“Not the least in the world; lie down, my dear 
friend; nothing shall disturb you.” 

He assisted the invalid to make himself comfort- 
able on the spacious ottoman, then closed the blinds, 
which gave a delicious freshness to the room. M. 
Leneil was soon asleep, and the doctor, who had 
watched with some misgivings the beginningof this 
sleep, left the arm chair where he had been sitting 
and beckoned Aurette to join him in a distant cor- 
ner of the room. 

“Now,” said he, “be calm at any price. He 
must not be disturbed for a long time. I hope he 
will soon be restored to health, but I can answer for 
nothing if he is agitated with new troubles. You 
are no longer a child, Aurette; as his physician I 
take all upon myself, and am ready to suffer the 


AURETTE. 


91 


consequences; from this moment you must conceal 
all letters from him, open all packages, give all 
signatures. If anything disagreeable happens — ” 

“ But, doctor, if it should concern the future of 
the family?” 

“You are discreet enough to know how to act 
under the circumstances. Besides, you have M. 
Richard for temporal affairs, and me, if I may dare 
say it, for spiritual ones. Do you understand? In 
a few weeks I hope to surrender your father to you 
in good health and capable of resuming his ordi- 
nary life. I must now return to my patients.” 

He departed, and two hours later M. Leneil 
awoke, feeling refreshed, but so weak that he 
resolved to retire immediately. After assisting him 
to bed, Aurette gave him a broth and left him to 
fall into a tranquil sleep. She then went to join 
Julia at the dinner table. 

It was very lonely for the two young girls in the 
great dining-room, which in the past had been so 
full of life and gayety; so they remained there as 
short a time as possible, and went immediately to 
Aurette’s room which was on the same floor with 
M. Leneil’s sleeping apartment, and permitted 


92 


AURETTE. 


them to keep an effectual surveillance through the 
wide, open doors. 

“The mail, mademoiselle,” said a servant, pre- 
senting a tray covered with sealed envelopes. 

Aurette took the packet and walked to the win- 
dow; it was nearly dark and she could scarcely see 
to read. 

“You can do that to-morrow,” said Julia, “have 
you not had enough to fatigue you to-day? ” 

“Some of them might require an immediate 
response,” replied Aurette, “you know papa never 
leaves a letter unread a moment after it is received, 
and most of these arrived this morning! I must do 
as he does When I am in his place temporarily.” 

She lighted two candles and placing them on a 
table near her, began to look over the mail. 

They were for the most part communications of 
no importance; there were several letters from dis- 
tant friends who, not having heard of the scandal, 
sent their congratulations in the simplicity of their 
souls. x 

Aurette arranged these with a sigh. 

“I do not know if they will be pleasant to poor 
papa or not,” she said, “I will give them to him 
later on. 



VA, 




1 -Vw.'AVvX’WM'I 


MM 


A MIST ROSE BEFORE HER EYES.— Page 93. 



















































































































































AURETTE. 


93 


One envelope remained unbroken. - This one 
was without a stamp or postmark; Aurette recog- 
nized the fine, angular handwriting of Mme. Bertho- 
lon. Julia, who was watching her, saw her hesitate 
as if she feared to open it. 

“Why do you hesitate,” she asked, “ tomorrow 
is Sunday; she writes to say that she will come, or 
will not, according to her fancy, Make haste and 
read it, I am almost asleep.” 

Aurette broke the seal slowly; it was addressed 
to her father: after perusing the first words a mist 
rose before her eyes, and the hand which held the 
letter fell upon the table. Julia, greatly alarmed, 
rose and leaning over her shoulder with her arm 
around her waist, began to read. These words met 
her eyes: 

“Dear Sir: Up to the last moment my son 

and I have hoped that you would see that the pro- 
jected marriage of M. Charles would bring a grave 
prejudice upon your family. Not having been con- 
sulted we have no advice to give, but we have 
reflected none the less during the ten days which 
have elapsed, and our reflections have caused us 
much chagrin. However, we wished to wait hoping 
you would change your mind. The marriage of 


94 


AURETTE. 


your son having taken place this morning there is 
no longer any resource for us against a deed which 
must change all our plans for the future. Notwith- 
standing the great merits of Mile. Aurette, we feel, 
my son and I, that it will be impossible for us to 
entertain the thought of an alliance with the young 
Mme. Leneil, and with the assurance of his profound 
regret, my son begs you to restore his freedom. 

Believe me, dear sir, your sincere friend, 

CORALIE BeRTHOLON.” 

“It is not possible! ,, cried Julia, when she saw 
the signature. 

A slight movement in M. Leneil’s room riveted 
her to the spot, terrified, pale with excitement. 

Aurette lifted her hand to command silence. 

The regular breathing of the sleeper was restored 
and the young girls looked into each others eyes 
with an expression of nameless horror. 

“Give me the letter to read again,” said Julia in 
a low voice. But her sister kept it clutched in her 
hand and refused to surrender it. 

“What good will it do?” said she, “you have 
read it. I am not greatly surprised. I anticipated 
this.” 


And said nothing! 


AURETTE. 


95 


“What good would it have done? When I say 
I anticipated it, I do not mean this, but I suspected 
that Mme. Bertholon was not pleased.” 

“The old witch! the wicked woman!” said Julia 
under her breath. “What perfidy, what cruelty! 
You know, Aurette, she will try now to find a richer 
girl for her great booby of a son — ” 

“Julia, I implore you to hush!” said Aurette, 
whose pale cheeks were suffused with adeep crimson. 

“And he, what an idiot!” continued Julia, not 
able to suppress her wrath, “he has not a word in 
which to defend himself, or you!” 

“You must give him time!” exclaimed Aurette 
in a generous outburst of indignation. “ His mother 
wrote this letter, and how do you know if he has 
ever seen it! ” 

“Ah! how you love him!” said Julialeaning over 
and pressing her cheek against the golden hair of 
her “little mother.” “He should be a hero to be 
worthy of you!” 

“Hush!” murmured Aurette in confusion. The 
young girl’s eyes were hollow, and a deep wrinkle 
was clearly marked upon her brow by the grief 
which had come to her; she was a hundred times 


q6 


AURETTE. 


more beautiful thus, but it was a tragic beauty born 
of a great sorrow. 

“We must, above all else, conceal this from 
papa!” she said, folding the letter with a firm hand 
and slipping it into her pocket, “then we must talk 
it over, for this letter must have an immediate 
response. And now it is time to go to bed to get a 
little rest, for we do not know what the next few 
days may bring forth, and we must reserve all our 
strength.” 

Julia looked at her in astonishment. This firm- 
ness and courage seemed to her supernatural; she 
feared that it was the beginning of madness. 

“ Aurette,” said she,” do you understand the true 
import of this letter?” 

“Be calm; I comprehend; for even should M. 
Bertholon resist his mother, my happiness is ruined 
forever. You know, Julia, what a marriage is with- 
out a parent’s blessing and approval.” 

“Oh! but this is different!” 

“ It would be the same thing. Papa would never 
consent for me to enter the family of Mme. Ber- 
tholon if she opposed it, and I — ” 

She turned away her head with a look of scorn, 
not unmixed with sadness. 


AURETTE. 


97 


‘‘Yes, my happiness is ruined,” repeated the 
young girl in a low voice, “ but papa’s life is worth 
more than my happiness, and for the present, I 
should think of this alone. Good-night.” 

But Julia stood there indecisive, with the tears 
glistening in her eyes, and her dry throat convulsed 
with sobs. Aurette sat immovable and silent for a 
long time; suddenly she rose, and throwing up her 
arms, fell upon the bed with her face buried in the 
pillows. Julia’s first thought was to ring for help, 
but she remembered her invalid father whose life 
would be imperilled at the least emotion. With a 
presence of mind far beyond her years, she threw 
open the window, then ran to a little closet where 
her sister kept the medicines, and finding the am- 
monia, she returned to Aurette’s inanimate form, 
and in a few moments she was restored to con- 
sciousness. 

“What is the matter?” said the poor girl passing 
her hand over her eyes. But memory soon brought 
back her sorrow and she began to search for her 
pocket. 

“The letter,” said she, “hide it so I may not 
lose it — that papa may not know it.” 


9 8 


AURETTE. 


Her trembling fingers wandered over the paper 
without being able to grasp it. Julia took the letter 
and placed it in her corsage, and assisted her sister 
to undress. Aurette was so weak that she could 
not stand up, and she allowed herself to be put to 
bed without resistance. 

“Poor Julia,” said she, “here you are with two 
sick children on your hands; but to-morrow I will 
be well. Go now and take some rest.” 

Julia went to her room but returned in a few 
moments dragging a pillow and a blanket which 
she spread upon the carpet. 

“ I will sleep here,” she said,” for if papa should 
call, what could you do?” 

Aurette made an effort to respond, but she could 
not speak; moving her hand feebly, she endeavored 
to draw her sister’s face to her own, but her strength 
failed her; the beneficent tears flowed down her 
cheeks, and hiding her head in the pillow she wept 
bitterly. 


CHAPTER VI. 

After a refreshing sleep, at a late hour next 
morning, M. Leneil awoke. As it often happens at 
some crisis in life, when a dreaded deed is accom- 
plished, his sorrow seemed less terrible to endure, 
than when awaiting it anxiously; the grave had 
closed over the dead, he must employ himself with 
the living. 

His first care was for Julia, whom he found next 
morning, pale with fatigue. Yet in that night of 
inquietude passed upon the floor near her sister’s 
bed, the young girl had found a new energy, which 
soon made her eyes shine and brought a brilliant 
color to her cheeks. 

Reassured in that direction, he turned his at- 
tention to his eldest daughter. Aurette had re- 
ceived a shock which would leave its mark upon her 
whole life, and her sweet face bore its ineffaceable 
trace. And yet she did not know the extent of her 
affliction; she did not believe Raoul his mother’s 
accomplice. She expected some word, some act, 

7 


100 


AURETTE. 


which would attest to his dignity as a man and a 
lover. She was sure that he would write, and was 
willing to make any excuse for the neglect of a few 
hours necessary to a reparative step. 

Still, she resented the unmerited affront to her- 
self, to her father, and to the whole family; she was 
indignant at the heartless cruelty, the ill-disguised 
brutality of a woman without a sentiment of loyalty 
in her soul. She could understand why her brother’s 
marriage should for awhile estrange certain sym- 
pathy and respect from them, but to break off thus 
abruptly, with no pretext, no excuse, it was un- 
pardonable. 

Her habit of confiding everything to her father 
made it almost intolerable to conceal this from 
him. Twenty times before breakfast she was on the 
point of telling him all. The long spell of weeping 
in which she had indulged during the night had left 
her with a severe headache which she plead as an 
excuse for her inflamed eyes and pale face. 

M. Leneil was weak and drowsy, and his mind, so 
overtaxed during the preceding ten days, did not 
possess its usual activity, so he accepted the explan- 
ation as entirely natural, and simply advised her to 


AURETTE. 


IOI 


ask the doctor for something soothing for the 
headache. 

M. Rozel arrived just as they were assembled 
at the breakfast table. His quick eye immediately 
discovered that there was some new cause for trou- t 
ble, and when he was assured that M. Leneil was as 
well as could be expected, he turned his attention 
to Aurette, watching her stealthily, endeavoring to 
divine the reason for her despondency; but without 
success. 

He rose to leave immediately after breakfast, 
giving his patients in town as an excuse for his 
early departure. He proposed to Aurette to accom- 
pany him a part of the way in his phaeton, which 
he was driving himself, so that she might return on 
foot. 

“There is nothing like exercise, ” said he, “for 
your moral and physical welfare! You will be a 
new creature after this little walk.” 

Aurette was too eager to talk freely with her 
wise counsellor not to accept his invitation, and 
they started off together. They had hardly left the 
Nest, when M. Rozel turned the corner in an oppo- 
site direction from Angers, and drove slowly down 
a shady road. 


102 


AURETTE. 


“What has happened?” said he to his young 
friend, “I hope it is nothing serious.” 

Aurette had kept a brave countenance during 
breakfast, and under her father’s eye she restrained 
herself to the point of discarding from her mind for 
the moment the terrible thought. This direct inter- 
rogation from the doctor revived the horror of the 
first shock with such force that the young girl 
moved her lips several times before she was able to 
utter a sound; her throat was parched as in a dream 
when one longs to cry out and cannot make one’s 
self heard. 

“What! what!” exclaimed M. Rozel uneasily. 

With a superhuman effort Aurette succeeded in 
pronouncing the four words which had ruined her 
life. 

“My marriage is broken off.” 

The good doctor pulled so hard on the reins that 
his little pony came to a stand-still. Touching him 
with his whip he said calmly: 

“You are ill, Aurette; this cannot be!” 

She drew from her pocket a small portfolio, and 
took from it Mme. Bertholon’s letter. Handing it 
to him she took the reins to drive while he read it, 
rocked by the gentle motion of the phaeton. 


AURETTE. 


103 


“What a foolish woman!” he exclaimed, folding 
the letter carefully and returning it to her. His 
kindly grey eyes rested upon Aurette’s tired face 
with profound pity. 

“And this precious son,” said he, “has he made 
no protest?” 

“ I do not know. I hope — I believe that he will 
write something — ” 

“Or has already done it,” interrupted the doctor, 
“I am sure that his mother has not consulted him; 
he would not have permitted her to send such a let- 
ter. It is a little, mean act, of which women alone 
are capable. This letter is coarse, another reason 
for believing that Mme. Bertholon consulted no one 
but herself.” 

They drove along the shady, level road for some 
moments in silence. 

“Tell me, Aurette,” said the doctor at last; “for 
you can speak to me as a father; has this wounded 
you greatly? ” 

She answered him bravely, but with trembling lips. 

“ Greatly.” 

“ Is it wounded pride or love? ” 

“It is not so much my pride,” said she, turning 
away her head. 


104 


AURETTE. 


The doctor gathered up his reins and the pony 
struck a brisk trot. 

Raoul Bertholon, the booby, the simpleton, as 
he called him in his mind, to inspire a sincere love, 
a kind of passion in this exquisite Aurette! It was 
humiliating to her! But one loves where one may, 
and she had never compared him with any other 
man; this is what the good doctor offered to him- 
self as a kind of excuse. 

“ Doctor,” said Aurette at the end of a mile, 
“are they talking very badly of us at Angers?” 

“Badly? Well, yes; not of you, though. Your 
brother and his wife are being rudely handled; 
Charles has received a blow from which he will not 
soon recover. I do not doubt that they are saying 
ten times as many slanderous things of Sidonie as 
she deserves, but I am not very indulgent to her, 
myself. Just or unjust, the gossip about her dis- 
turbs me very little. It would not affect me at all 
if it did not rebound on the innocent. But what is 
done, is done; it is useless to regret it. I must add, 
not only to console you, Aurette, but for the love 
of truth, that Mme. Bertholon will be universally 
censured, even by those who have been most severe 
on the culprits. One must respect propriety; she 


AURETTE. 105 

should have sought some pretext, or at least not 
acted so hastily — ” 

“I prefer that it should be settled at once,” said 
Aurette quickly, “ not for poor papa, who will re- 
ceive it as a mortal blow, but for myself. I hate 
ambiguous situations; suspense seems to me to be 
the greatest suffering of which we are capable, and 
I prefer the certainty of a misfortune than to be 
eternally expecting it.” 

“ She loves this simpleton, and still believes in 
him,” thought the doctor. “She has more sorrow 
in store for her, even after this terrible blow.” 

“Ah! well!” said he aloud, “prepare yourself for 
rude treatment, my poor child! In your fathers 
state of mind and body the whole care of the 
family falls upon you. I will help you to bear it. 
The notary is a brave man, but he has a wife and 
three children, so expect no help in that direction, 
for you would run the risk of falling into endless 
complications. You and I — ” 

“And Julia,” added Aurette, with a look of ten- 
der pride. “ If you only knew how she cared for 
me; with what coolness and presence of mind! I 
did not know her until last night.” 

The doctor turned his pony’s head toward Angers. 


io6 


AURETTE. 


“ I have entirely forgotten my patients,” he said, 
“and I am sure they are needing me. So Julia has 
shown herself a good sick nurse? Does she ever 
speak now of being a sister of charity?” 

“ Not since the Fete-Dieu. But why do you ask 
me this?” 

“ Because it seems superfluous to me for her to 
go to exercise her Christian duties in the outside 
world, when there is so much to be done in her own 
home. She is young, and she will perhaps learn 
life in a rougher school than the postulants! But, 
Aurette, here are my commands: The same absolute 
quiet for your father; for yourself, silence and resig- 
nation. As to Mme. Bertholon’s letter, do not 
answer it. I will tell her that the least emotion will 
endanger your father’s life. I may be able to 
obtain from her— not a retraction, for you do not 
wish it — ” 

“Oh! no!” sighed Aurette. 

“ Will you confide to me this remarkable epistle ? 
I will not promise not to relinquish it to her, but I 
may probably bring you another in its place.” 

Aurette silently acquiesced, and handed him the 
letter. 


AURETTE. 


107 


“ Here is the Nest,” said he, “ I will put you out 
at the park gate. Say to Julia that I am pleased 
with her, and that if she is very wise I will take her 
with me to my clinic and teach her to dress wounds. 
I know she is dyingtogo with me. Good-morning.” 

Bowing affectionately to Aurette, and touching 
his horse gently with his whip, the good man was 
soon out of sight. 

Before joining her father and sister, Aurette 
stopped in the hall to inquire of a servant if there 
had been any visitor since she left the house. There 
v/as no letter for her! The slight flush which the 
drive in the fresh air had brought to her cheek 
quickly faded; she breathed heavily, as if to gain 
strength, then went to join the others. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Doctor Rozel, so gentle, tender and prudent with 
his patients, had the reputation of being a terrible 
hand at a moral operation. So Mme. Bertholon, 
who knew of his intimacy with the Leneil family, 
was little pleased to learn that he had called to 
make her a visit. 

The news of M. Leneil’s serious illness had 
reached her that morning in town, where the inhabit- 
ants were occupied principally in gossiping about 
the young couple who had just taken their flight. 
The old lady’s active mind immediately suggested 
a correlativeness between her letter and the doctor’s 
visit, and she believed that he had come to tell her 
of his friend’s illness. 

Having decided to inform him that the affairs of 
M. Leneil no longer concerned her, she entered the 
parlor more icy in her manner than usual, and it was 
with the temperature below zero that she offered 
him a chair. Without appearing to notice that the 
seat was, morally, at least, a block of ice, he settled 
himself comfortably in it, as if for a long stay. 


AURETTE. 


109 


He began by speaking of commonplace matters, 
such as the excellent state of health of the town, a 
contemplated change in the garrison not imminent, 
and when Mme. Bertholon was exasperated almost 
beyond endurance, he said to her abruptly: 

“I have just come from Bird’s Nest. My friend, 
M. Leneil is suffering greatly.” 

The mercury in Mme. Bertholon’s moral ther- 
mometer congealed instantly. Her face seemed 
to say by its blankness; “I do not know why you 
should speak to me of people who are nothing more 
than strangers to me.” 

But M. Rozel was not to be disturbed by such a 
trifle. 

“As his physician,” he continued, “I am anxious 
that he should be spared all emotion, good as well 
as bad; his two daughters are angels — ” 

Mme. Bertholon slightly elevated her eyebrows, 
as much as to say: “Julia too!” but her grey eyes 
continued to reflect the icebergs of the polar regions. 

“However, they cannot ward off all disagreeable 
things. I have said to them: ‘My poor children, 
you fill your role admirably, but no one can cope 
with the impossible. Should my friend Leneil die 
of a shock, as he is liable to do, I will proclaim it far 


IIO 


* AURETTE. 


and near that you have done all you could — so 
much the worse for those upon whom the responsi- 
bility of this misfortune will fall. I will be merci- 
less to them.’ I have said this to them, madam, 
and I have at least rendered homage to the truth.” 

Circulation seemed to have suddenly been 
restored in Mme. Bertholon. She opened her lips, 
not without an effort, however. 

“Is he then so ill?” she asked uneasily. 

“ Rheumatism complicated with endocardite is 
always very dangerous.” 

She did not comprehend him, but she was no less 
impressed. 

“You, who will so soon be connected with the 
Leneil family—” 

Mme. Bertholon could not repress a gesture of 
indignant denial. 

“What!” exclaimed the doctor, “is not your son 
affianced to Mile. Aurette?” 

“ Do not feign ignorance any longer, M. Rozel,” 
said she, “you know that I have withdrawn my 
word.” 

“ The doctor bowed politely to her, then drew 
from his pocket-book the letter which Aurette had 
entrusted to him. 



DO YOU WISH A COMPROMISE?”— Page Hi, 



AURETTE. 


I I I 


“ Perfectly well, my dear madam/’ said he with 
great urbanity,” here is the proof with your signa- 
ture. What would you say should I inform you 
that while reading it, my friend Leneil drew his last 
breath in my arms?” 

Mme. Bertholon gazed at him intently; his 
countenance was impenetrable, and she was truly 
alarmed. 

“Do not jest, sir,” she said, “this is a serious 
matter.” 

“Be assured, madam, if it were not serious, I 
would not have the honor of being in your house at 
this moment. Do you wish a compromise?” 

“A — what?” replied the old lady haughtily. 

“ I said a compromise,” repeated the doctor, 
dwelling on the word. “The sea is superb at this 
time of the year; the coast is not so rough as it 
will be in six weeks from now; this is the right 
season to make a tour of Brittany, or of Arcachon 
if you prefer the woody coasts of resinous trees. 
Your health requires the seabreeze; or perhaps you 
would prefer to spend a month or two at some 
watering place. I am ready to prescribe — ” 

“ Sir!” interrupted Raoul’s mother with indigna- 
tion which she could no longer suppress. 


1 12 


AURETTE. 


“Then,” continued M. Rozel calmly, “before 
going you must write to M. Leneil, that being forced 
to absent yourself suddenly, you will not have time 
to go to take leave of him and his daughters; you 
will add, that upon your return it will give you 
pleasure to see him again. And then, you must 
write to him once or twice during your absence. 
Your letters have never been very gracious, so then 
your coldness will not astonish him. Upon your 
return, if you have not changed your mind, Mile. 
Aurette will write you that after reflection she has 
concluded that she cannot marry your son.” 

Mme. Bertholon had listened attentively to these 
words. 

“But,” said she, “suppose I refuse to carry out 
this little scheme you have so cleverly devised?” 

M. Rozel pointed to the letter which he still held 
between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Should you not accede to what I have proposed,” 
he replied, “I will be responsible as the physician 
and friend of the family, and will be forced to give 
to the public the document which led to such grave 
troubles in the present state of my patient’s health. 
It will be impossible, don’t you understand, as clear 
as his mind is, to keep him in ignorance more than 


AURETTE. 


”3 


a few days longer of a deed which concerns him so 
deeply.” 

Mme. Bertholon remained immovable, reflecting 
profoundly. Doctor Rozel possessed an enviable 
reputation as an honorable man in all respects; his 
word was an article of faith among his enemies as 
well as his friends. She held out her hand for the 
letter. 

“Give it to me,” she said briefly. 

“Hold, hold, my dear madam!” said the doctor, 
still retaining the letter. 

She rose, and going to a small writing desk 
near the window, sat down, and after putting on her 
eye glasses, she dipped her pen into the ink and 
without looking at the doctor said: “ Dictate!” 

“Excuse me, dear madam,” said M. Rozel, mod- 
estly, “ but my friend would lose much pleasure in 
reading this letter if it did not emanate from you!” 

She leaned over the paper and traced in her 
stiff, angular handwriting a dozen lines, expressing 
her regrets at being obliged to leave without bidding 
adieu to her friends at the Nest. When she had 
finished she scattered upon the letter a pinch of 
gold sand and handed it, open, to the doctor, who 
took it and read it tranquilly. 


AURETTE. 


114 


“This is perfect,” said he, “we will now enclose 
this in the envelope of the other letter, and the first 
time that my friend Leneil asks for his mail, we will 
give him this one. Mile. Leneil will not delay in 
making the determination of which I have spoken 
to you, which will terminate this unfortunate affair. 
I am your humble servant, madam.” 

He was on the street before Mme. Bertholon had 
time to recover her senses. The attack was rough 
certainly, as it was necessary to be in order to van- 
quish her; it would be terribly hard for her to leave 
people to believe that the rupture came from the 
Leneil’s side. 

Doctor Rozel looked at his watch, and finding 
the hour favorable he walked rapidly in the direc- 
tion of the Cafe Gasnauet, which is near the theatre 
at Ralliement Place. He was almost certain of 
finding Raoul Bertholon there at that time of day, 
alone, or with a friend. The young architect was 
there in fact, alone, and apparently greatly bored. 

When he saw the doctor, he looked as if he 
wished to sink through the floor; he returned his 
bow with an air of indifference and began to read 
his newspaper, hoping that M. Rozel would pass by 
on the other side. 


AURETTE. 


“5 

Vain hope! The doctor came and sat beside 
him on the large divan, where the great space be- 
tween the tables permitted the different groups of 
people to be entirely isolated from each other. 

“ It is beautiful here,” said M. Rozel, admiring, 
with the air of a connoisseur, the really artistic 
decorations of the place. “You come here fre- 
quently, do you not?” 

“Yes,” responded Raoul indifferently, “it is 
quiet here; no noise of any kind.” 

As most of the conversations were carried on in 
an undertone, the regular noise of the billiard balls 
in a neighboring saloon was the only thing to remind 
one at this hour of the afternoon that it was a pub- 
lic place. 

“It is wonderfully quiet,” replied the doctor, 
ordering a vermout. 

When the beverage was before him he settled 
himself comfortably on the divan to enjoy it; he 
was a sybarite in his own way, and greatly liked his 
ease. 

“You will leave soon for the sea coast, with 
Mme. Bertholon,” he continued, with an air of 
innocence. 


8 


ii6 


AURETTE. 


Raoul regarded him as if he had announced an 
anticipated visit to the Shah of Persia. 

“Yes/’ the doctor continued calmly, “you will 
spend six weeks or two months there, for a rest.” 

The iron was cruel, knowing as he did that the 
handsome architect was idle most of his time; but 
one may rest very often when one is not fatigued, 
so it was not this that surprised M. Bertholon. 

“Excuse me,” said he, “but how do you know 
it?” 

“Your mother informed me of it a few minutes 
ago. I made her a short visit and we spoke of 
various things — So your marriage is broken off?” 

Raoul was ill at ease and moved about as rest- 
less on the soft cushions of the luxurious divan as 
if they were stuffed with thorns. 

“Great Heavens!” he exclaimed, “it is broken 
off — yes, it is — in fact, I am desolate! — I swear to 
you that I am inconsolable — but after all that has 
passed, you must confess that the alliance was much 
less brilliant — and my honor — ” 

He was very much confused and the doctor 
came to his rescue. 

“The alliance was less brilliant? do you mean 
the marriage of Charles? For Mademoiselle , 


AURETTE. 


H 7 


we will not name her here if you wish it, has 
changed in no way that I know.” 

“Oh! I assure you,” said Raoul, with a certain 
warmth of manner, “ she is just as she always was, 
that is, an angel! But — although — I realize this, to 
avoid complications which would be quite disagree- 
able, it is better — ” 

“So you have renounced her entirely, without 
hesitation?” 

“Pardon me! not without hesitation, no indeed! 
It has been very painful to me — but — ” Suddenly 
looking at his interlocutor he leaned toward him 
and said, as if seized with an irresistible effusiveness: 
“You do not know, doctor, what it is to oppose a 
woman like my mother. For eight days I have en- 
deavored to withstand her, but with no success! 
She does not wish it, and I will be the most miser- 
able of men if I resist her. No, there is no resource.” 

“Do you mean she would disinherit you?” 
asked the doctor in a mocking tone. 

Raoul’s eyes flashed angrily. 

“ If it were only that!” said he, “but it is the life 
she would lead me. Between two griefs I have 
chosen the one which — which was — ” 


1 18 


AURETTE. 


“Was the lesser and the farthest from you,” said 
M. Rozel, rising to leave. Then suddenly he added: 
“ If you will come with me to the Nest, and if you 
had the courage to escape from the leading strings — 
excuse me, I cannot find a suitable expression — of 
your mother, even though she should disinherit you, 
it would not be a very great misfortune! My friend 
is rich enough to compensate — ” 

“Oh! it is not that!” protested Raoul, with real 
anger, and evident sincerity. “ It is on account of 
my peace of mind. You see, doctor, should I marry 
against her wishes I should never know another 
happy moment, never, never!” 

“ Which would be very disagreeable!” said the 
doctor, nibbling the head of his cane. “You have 
decided then; you will not?” 

“I cannot!” replied the young man, with an air 
of constraint. 

“It is a pity!” replied M. Rozel, as coldly as if 
the words had fallen from the lips of Mme. Ber- 
tholon. He bowed and turned his back on Raoul 
who laid his hand on his shoulder to retain him. 

“Tell her, doctor,” whispered he, “that this 
affair has troubled me greatly — I assure you, you 
cannot imagine — ” 


AURETTE. 


1 1 9 

“I shall not mention it to her, you may depend 
upon it,” replied the doctor briefly, “ if you wish 
her to know it, tell her yourself. Good-evening.” 

He took his departure, leaving Raoul greatly 
annoyed. After a moment of hesitation the young 
man sat down again, saying to himself: ‘‘No, I can- 
not; it would be a hell on earth. I regret it deeply, 
but it is impossible.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Doctor Rozel hastened at once to see Aurette. 
As a diplomat, he was charmed at his success with 
Mme. Bertholon; as a friend, he regretted that he 
had not obtained anything more satisfactory from 
Raoul. So he resolved to keep silent in regard to 
his interview with the young man. 

“ Mile. Leneil listened to her old friend with 
deep interest, which repaid him for his trouble, her 
beautiful brown eyes speaking her thanks more 
sweetly than her lips. 

“You see/’ concluded the excellent man, “the 
amour propre is saved, which is a great deal; the 
heart — ” 

“ Do not speak of that,” said Aurette, “now or 
ever. However, there is one more question I will 
ask you, and I entreat you to answer it with perfect 
candor; after which all will be at an end, forever. 
Do you believe that in this affair M. Bertholon has 
been entirely in harmony with his mother, or has he 
allowed himself to be ruled by her? This point is 
to me of the greatest importance, for — ” 


AURETTE. 


1 2 1 


She could not finish the sentence; her face was 
flushed, and her lips trembled. 

“It requires all my moral courage to answer this 
question,” replied the doctor, “but you know it is 
impossible for me to judge of anything so serious, 
all alone.” 

“I do not ask this of you,” responded Aurette, 
“ but have you seen or heard aught that would jus- 
tify you in believing that Raoul Bertholon did, or 
did not share his mother’s views in this matter?” 

At this direct interrogation, M. Rozel felt con- 
strained to respond candidly. So he told her of his 
conversation with the young man, without exaggera- 
tion or extenuation. 

“You see,” said he, as he ended his recital, “he 
is not a wicked young fellow; he is disinterested, 
which is something to his credit, but he is an egotist 
who prefers his own ease and pleasure to all else. 
Your life with him would be one continual sacrifice, 
and you would very quickly discover that he is not 
all you have believed him.” 

“Yes,” said Aurette with infinite sweetness, “you 
are right; but we will not speak of it!” 

She remained silent for some time, and the doc- 
tor gazed at her beautiful face as she reflected. 


122 


AURETTE. 


Never had she been so lovely; the anguish of the 
past days had given to her beauty an exalted 
character which rendered it noble and pathetic. 
Certain natures are crushed beneath a load of sor- 
row, others lift themselves up the better to bear 
them. Aurette seemed really to have grown, and 
this impression was so strong in the mind of M. 
Rozel, that he measured her with his eyes several 
times, involuntarily. 

“You are goodness itself!” said she, after a long 
silence, “ You have rescued me from a terrible situa- 
tion; I will write the letter which you have promised 
to Mme. Bertholon, whenever vou desire it, and as 
you desire it — ” 

“There is time enough!” interrupted the doctor, 
“it is necessary that your father should be well 
enough for you to announce this change to him. 
What will you tell him?” 

“Oh! do not fear, I have thought of it,” said she 
with a sad smile. “I will tell him that I am 
wounded by the Bertholons’ indifference to his ill- 
ness, and that I prefer not to give him a son who 
does not sufficiently love and respect him.” 

The doctor looked at her with admiration. “This 
is perfect!” he exclaimed, “ an old philosopher like 


AURETTE. 


123 


myself could not have done better! but as I said, 
we have plenty of time. On Sunday you must 
choose a favorable moment to announce to him 
Mme. Bertholon’s departure.” 

She simply bowed her head in response, and he v 
drew her to him and affectionately kissed her brow, 

“Ah!” said he, as if speaking to himself, “tc 
find a woman like you, and not know how to love 
her until death! What a sad idea of mankind this 
gives one! But life is long, and all men are not 
idiots.” 

M. Leneil took the announcement of Mme. Ber- 
tholon’s little journey very philosophically. Fai 
from dreaming of the broken engagement, and 
believing from his daughter’s tranquil air that at the 
furthest it was only a passing coolness, he welcomed 
with a certain relief the thought of not seeing the 
old lady again for several weeks. He was always as 
amiable to her as possible, but the manners of 
Aurette’s future mother-in-law were too cold and 
haughty to please him; but on account of the inter- 
est he had in Raoul, he had taken great pains to pre- 
serve his cordiality to a person with whom he really 
had very little sympathy. 


124 


AURETTE. 


“One doesn’t marry one’s mother-in-law,” he 
said to console himself, “much less the mother-in- 
law of one’s daughter.” 

Resolved to show herself satisfied with her 
brother’s marriage, Julia returned to the convent to 
finish the last weeks of school. She and her sister 
had debated this important question for a long time; 
must she remain quietly under the paternal roof, or 
face the cruel and indiscreet gossip, and bravely risk 
hearing painful things? With one accord the young 
"girls decided to hold up their heads in the world; 
to have retired would have given cause for even 
more disagreeable comments. 

“They will think that we are afraid,” said Julia, 
whose straightforward nature did not recoil from 
the struggle. 

Thus Aurette found herself alone with her father, 
who had a natural tendency to fly to her as an 
asylum of tenderness and peace. The great empty 
house, and the staircase which was so seldom used 
now, resounded at the slightest noise! In vain did 
Aurette impose upon herself two hours of practic- 
ing her music each day, for when she closed the 
piano, the silence in this deserted mansion was 


AURETTE. 


125 


more profound than ever. M. Leneil never mur- 
mured; convalescent after a blow which had nearly 
wrecked his life, he enjoyed each passing hour and 
asked for nothing more. He thoughtfully avoided 
any allusion to their recent mortifications, hardly 
ever pronounced his son’s name, never Sidonie’s; 
and seemed to desire nothing in the intervals be- 
tween his long slumbers, but his daughter’s smile 
and a glimpse of the landscape, veiled in a mist, or 
flooded with sunlight, but always exquisite, at every 
moment of the day. 

In this life, consecrated exclusively to her father, 
Aurette had not much time for thought. During 
the long hours which she spent near him, as he 
slept, she rigorously interdicted all sorrowful memo- 
ries. What if M. Leneil should awake suddenly 
and see her tearful eyes and sad countenance? Too 
honest to be able to dissimulate, in even about a 
trifle, she could only bear the weight of her secret 
by separating it completely from her life, as if it 
did not exist. Later on, she would taste all the 
bitterness of a grief which had befallen her so un- 
expectedly. 

Several days had passed away in this manner, 
when one evening she felt that this restraint had 


126 


AURETTE. 


become intolerable. Every thought which she had 
so long stifled seemed to be pressing on her brain 
so that it would burst. 

M. Leneil was asleep, although it was hardly 
half-past nine. Aurette called a servant to take 
her place at his bedside, then throwing a lace scarf 
over her head, she descended to the park. 

The night was warm, the sky cloudy, and the 
darkness profound; notwithstanding, after the first 
moment, it was light enough to find one’s way in the 
shady walks. The young girl walked rapidly in the 
direction of a terrace some distance from the house, 
where the view was unobstructed from one end of 
the horizon to the other. 

With her eyes lost in space she watched the 
western heavens which were still bright with the 
lingering hues of sunset. Far beyond the hills was 
the sea, whence the breeze bore to her the faint 
scent of the salt spray on its rocky coast. He was 
there, somewhere in the West; he, who after telling 
her that he loved her, had forsaken her. 

Forsaken! yes. Like some poor, betrayed 
peasant girl, the rich Mile. Leneil, in all the glory 
of her purity and her adorable virginity, was for- 
saken. 


AURETTE. 


127 


This word came to her lips like a wail, a knell. 
She had read in newspapers, accounts of girls aban- 
doned by their lovers, and her heart had been moved 
with compassion for them; but had they not com- 
mitted the one irredeemable fault which a man 
never forgives? In loving had they not forgotten 
their honor? They incur the scorn of the world, 
knowing that it has no pity, and that a lover de- 
spises her who trusts him even though he swears to 
love her forever. 

But she! What had she done to merit the dis- 
dain of Raoul Bertholon, or that he should renounce 
her? She gazed more intently into the profound 
depths of the mute heavens, and her soul rushed 
toward the wave-beaten shores where one might lie 
down in the sands and wait to die. 

To die! Oh! yes, to die, to flee from this un- 
bearable agony where shame mingled with sorrow. 
To die, in order to forget, to be no longer capable 
of suffering. If in death we do not find forgetful- 
ness of griefs, the promise of Paradise is but a 
cruel lie! 

But Aurette could not die; as long as her father 
lived she must live. So she returned to her poor, 


128 


AURETTE 


present self, so cruelly stricken and martyred, and 
bravely looked her woes in the face. 

But how she loved him! How she had trusted 
and believed in him! Who would have dared to 
say that he did not possess every virtue and gift 
with which she had adorned him so prodigally? 
Who would have risked whispering in her ear that 
Raoul was a feeble egotist, spoiled by the world, 
enervated by the despotism of his mother to the 
extent of being oblivious of his duty as a man and 
a lover? 

At this sorrowful hour she still did not wish to 
hold him responsible, so deeply had she loved him. 
She threw the blame wholly on Mme. Bertholon, 
closing her eyes to all evidence against him, so as 
to excuse and pity him. 

Pity him! So be it. But what could she now 
do with her life, cut down in its flower, like a tree, 
too young, falling by mistake under the ax of the 
woodman? This wave of tenderness, of confidence, 
of hope, welled up in her heart as from the ruined 
basin of a fountain, whose waters overflow upon the 
sterile sand. 

“How I loved him!” said she from time to time, 
without noticing that she was repeating the same 


AURETTE. 


129 


words, so cruelly did this multiple grief pierce 
every fibre of her soul. 

She recalled with a kind of greediness the happy 
days of this lost love. They had danced together 
the past winter. He had sought her openly, stand- 
ing beside her in the quadrilles, silent, but with a 
proud and contented air. She had dreamed of his 
loving her even then, and she had said to herself 
then should he demand her hand in marriage, she 
would not refuse him, provided her father would 
consent to it. 

From that time she had voluntarily spoken ot 
him to her father when they talked together, in 
order to accustom him to Raoul's name. She did 
not love him then, but he pleased her, and even 
Mme. Bertholon’s frigid inflexibility appeared to 
her dignity graced with savoir faire . 

And so one day her father had sought her in the 
conservatory, where she was busy with her flowers, 
and kissed her tenderly, so tenderly she could yet 
feel that kiss upon her brow, so deeply had it af- 
fected her. It seemed to her that for the first time 
it had dawned upon his mind that there was a pos- 
sibility of her no longer being near him. For some 


130 


AURETTE. 


one had come to ask for her; oh! if it were only he! 
It was he! 

With downcast eyes, and a generous blush suf- 
fusing her face, she had listened to M. Leneil present 
his arguments in favor of this false one! Poor, dear 
father! what a misfortune he had brought upon him- 
self by thus pleading his cause! But it was to her a 
delicious pleasure to hear those respected lips ex- 
press what she had been thinking for so many 
months. And when a little troubled by her long 
silence, he had asked her, not without a shade of 
inquietude, “What answer shall I give?” She had 
responded calmly: “If he pleases you, he pleases 
me.” And from that day she had even loved the 
conservatory! 

And so, he had come, with the frigid Mme. Ber- 
tholon, who was all smiles and good humor on this 
occasion. She could recall the slightest detail of 
this visit; the color of Raoul’s gloves, the tie of his 
cravat, the gold locket which hung from his watch- 
chain, where, she said to herself, she would put her 
own picture, later on. She remembered the em- 
barrassment of the young man, an embarrassment 
which instantly put her at her ease; and the be- 
trothal kiss imprinted upon her hand, the first 


AURETTE. 


131 

lover’s kiss which Aurette had ever received, and 
which gave her such a strange sensation that she 
had almost withdrawn her hand to offer her cheek 
instead, never thinking of wrong. 

And since that time what a delicious existence! 
It was she who had requested to defer the marriage 
until Julia’s return home, so that her father might- 
not be left alone. How tenderly he had thanked 
her, her beloved father! At the memory of those 
words Aurette felt her heart melting and her eyes, 
although so dry and burning, were moistened with 
tears. Never could she forget what he said to her, 
this generous, unselfish father. He called her his 
treasure, his pearl, and she felt that such an affec- 
tion would outlast all the hazards of life. But she 
did not dream at this time, that she would fly to it 
one day as the only asylum left to her on earth. 

44 Poor papa!” she murmured, resting her head 
upon the stone balustrade, while her heart was 
shaken with a storm of tears, 44 bless you for having 
loved me so fondly! And I will never leave you 
till you are in your tomb, when I will have folded 
your hands and closed your eyes for eternity.” 

This thought of a last separation, so cruel and 
perhaps so close at hand, far from depressing 
9 


132 


AURETTE. 


Aurette, gave her new strength. Summoning up her 
courage she returned to her memories, deciding to 
revive once for all, the beautiful past, then to close 
the book, no longer to dream of it except as one 
dreams of the dead. 

Yes, the time had been delicious. Every Sun- 
day Raoul came with his mother and took away 
with him the bouquet which his fiancee had made 
for him; she believed, the innocent Aurette, that in 
these blossoms he read the sweet sentiments she 
had breathed upon them — but to him they were 
simply flowers, nothing more. They spoke little to 
each other, never in tete-a-tete, apart from the 
others; but at dinner he sat near her and she felt 
the edge of his plate touch her hand as she helped 
him to the daintiest morsels, glad to see him some- 
thing of an epicure, and making a mental note of 
the dishes which he preferred, determined to banish 
from their future menus all those which did not win 
his approbation. 

She could see now that she had lived in the 
future more than in the present, rejoicing threefold 
in actual pleasures because she believed that later 
on she would possess them always and without 
obstacles. Poor Aurette, unreasonable Aurette! she 


AURETTE. 


133 


had built her castles in the clouds, and a tempest 
had swept them all away! 

And so short a time before this he had said: “I 
love you!” Mockery of fate, he had uttered these 
words almost at the moment when she lost him! 
How he had deceived himself, how he had deceived 
her! If he had loved her truly, loved her as she 
loved him, never could he have abandoned her. 

And now all was over! this illumination of her 
life had vanished like the blaze of fireworks, leav- 
ing her in darkness after having blinded her with 
its dazzling lights. Aurette lifted her head and 
looked with tearful eyes across the gloomy land- 
scape, where only black masses were defined against 
the horizon; thus would her existence be now, a 
dark impenetrable threshold, behind which she 
would conceal the ruins of her love. 

One thing alone remained to her in this wreck, 
like the flag which floats above the mast of a 
foundered ship; he had never known how intensely 
she loved him, and he would never know. 

She had often thought of the time, when, alone 
in their nuptial chamber, she would sit beside him 
and tell him of it. It was a dream which she had 
caressed with a peculiar joy and tenderness — this 


134 


AURETTE. 


avowal, prepared during so many months of silent 
adoration. In that solemn hour, before she laid 
aside her bridal wreath, she would pour out her love 
upon his soul like a perfume, and he should know 
all that she had felt, thought, hoped, before being 
to him — Poor dream! 

Broken-hearted, drunken with tears, Aurette 
thought of her wedding dress, whose rich material 
lay carefully folded in a drawer; the soft silken 
stuff which she had chosen after so much considera- 
tion. 

“It will be my shroud!” he said bitterly, “ I will 
take it with me to my grave.” 

As in a vision she saw herself in the distant 
future, old, weary, bereft of her father; Julia mar- 
ried; Charles exiled forever, and she alone, all 
alone — and always in its drawer would be the bridal 
robe awaiting her for a shroud. And she would be 
neither a daughter, a wife, nor mother — nothing, 
only the wreck of a vanished past, of a decayed 
house — a being who has no object in existence — an 
old maid. 

“This is not my fault,” said Aurette, lifting her 
head, “and I will do my duty in spite of it all!” 


AURETTE. 


135 


She rose with an inexpressible lassitude; her 
feet staggered under her, her heart was bleeding, 
her head empty; she felt a vague desire to do noth- 
ing, to see nothing, to think nothing. It was neces- 
sary to return to the house, however, to take up the 
burden of life. Too weak to walk, she fell back on 
the terrace with her arms hanging by her side, and 
her eyes fixed on the dark horizon. 

But gradually the sky grew brighter, a light 
breeze lifted the curtain of clouds and the stars 
appeared, forming themselves, in the purple depths 
of the firmament, into the same familiar groups 
which millions of our ancestors have contemplated 
before us. 

“Ah!” exclaimed Aurette, “those stars — ” 

The cup of tears which she believed empty filled 
up anew, without her knowing from what mysterious 
source. These stars! She had gazed at them with 
so much confidence and love, the last time! Never 
could she look upon them again without a pang of 
suffering! 

She threw herself upon the ground and wept 
bitterly, while the wind blew about the great tattered 
clouds which floated above her like gigantic birds 
in their silent flight. Then, by degrees, a melancholy 


136 


AURETTE. 


peace entered her heart, spreading over it with a 
sorrowful voluptuousness. These stars which filled 
her with an inexpressible anguish, over how many 
griefs as profound, as irremediable as her own, had 
they not burned, since the beginning of ages? All 
those who were dead, once burdened with woes, had 
in the end found repose; with their faces upturned 
to the skies, after their day was finished, they were 
sleeping in their last beds. 

“I too,” said Aurette, ‘‘will end my day and fall 
asleep. God grant that I may find eternal peace!” 

Feeling stronger she arose, and with a firm step 
walked toward the Nest, where she could see the 
night lamp in her father’s room shining feebly 
through the window. 

“There, henceforth, is my star!” thought the 
young girl, and resigned, without being consoled, 
she entered the house. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A letter from Charles arrived at the Nest. As 
soon as he left France he had sent M. Leneil a letter 
on six closely written pages, telling him all that he 
had felt, rather than thought, which he had not been 
able to express to him. 

He suffered, and always would suffer for having 
grieved his father, and above all, for having de- 
ceived him. All the consequences of his fault 
which he had not foreseen nor even suspected, ap- 
peared to him now, but one; the rupture of his sisters 
marriage had not yet come to his knowledge. 

After reading this letter M. Leneil handed it to 
his daughter with a sigh. Aurette read it in silence, 
then folded it and returned it to the envelope. 
Poor Charles, he was already punished; what would 
he be when he learned what the premature accom- 
plishment of his desires had cost his sister! For the 
moment, the young girl hesitated as to whether she 
should ever tell him; it seemed to her so hard to 
touch upon that anguish, that she longed to keep 
the dolorous secret to herself alone. 


138 


AURETTE. 


Notwithstanding, the thought that the whole of 
Angers would certainly know the substantial points 
in regard to her broken engagement, made her con- 
sider her duty in another direction. Charles would 
learn the facts from others, so would it not be unjust 
to herself to permit him to believe it a caprice of 
his sister, when really she was a victim of circum- 
stances caused by his own fault? 

After several days of meditation, Aurette re- 
solved to end with one blow all which bound her to 
her lost happiness. M. Leneil was growing better 
each day, and the doctor permitted him to occupy 
himself, with moderation, with his business affairs, 
so she thought that the time was favorable to inform 
him of the change which had so unexpectedly taken 
place in her life. 

The occasion was propitious; more than once 
already, M. Leneil had asked himself what he would 
do when she would no longer be there. In spite of 
the fact that Julia would return home in ten days, 
he felt how necessary to his happiness was his elder 
daughter. Prompt to reproach himself for what he 
considered an egotistical thought, he forced himself 
to speak of indifferent matters, but Aurette divined 
the restraint he put upon his feelings. 


AURETTE. 


139 


One morning just after breakfast, they were sit- 
ting in the park under a great plane-tree which 
threw its shadow over the grass like an immense 
parasol. Before them, the velvety green lawn 
stretched out in harmonious curves, on the edge of 
which behind a curtain of foliage they could see 
the house, girdled with wistaria. M. Leneil sat in 
an easy chair and his eyes roved, from time to time, 
beyond the surrounding shrubbery to the blue skies 
and over the sweet landscape, whose distant vista 
shone through an opening in the umbrageous walls. 
He loved this spot; the plane-tree, particular object 
of his care, was but a sapling when he purchased 
the Nest, and it was in the shade of this verdant 
parasol that his children had learned to walk. Now 
and then the gardener’s rake brought to the surface 
the debris of metal playthings, souvenirs of that 
childhood already far away, and these findings 
always brought a tender smile to the lips of the 
devoted father. 

M. Leneil slowly unfolded his paper and began 
to read; Aurette, who came from the house with 
her key basket, leaned over him and took it from 
his hand. 

'“No,” said her father, “give it to me.” 


140 


AURETTE. 


“ But, papa, I wish to read to you.” 

“I know it, but let me have it. I will read it 
myself. I must accustom myself to doing without 
you.” 

Although the heat was oppressive, Aurette 
shivered from head to foot; the hour had come; the 
inevitable words must be spoken. She sat down 
opposite her father, and in order to keep herself in 
countenance, took her work in her cold, trembling 
hands. 

“Papa,” she said slowly, without looking at him, 
“ forgive me if I displease you, but if you will per- 
mit me, I will never leave you.” 

M. Leneil was not altogether surprised, for he 
had felt about him for some time an atmosphere of 
mystery. 

“Is it your wish?” said he, hesitatingly, fearing 
that he was deceived, himself. 

“ I wish, papa, always to remain near you,” re- 
plied Aurette, sticking her needle at hazard into the 
linen. 

“You do not then desire to marry?” 

With his hand upon the arm of her chair, he 
leaned toward her and scrutinized the charming 
face which was overspread with a transparent pallor. 


AURETTE. 


141 

Aurette laid aside her work which she could no 
longer hold in her trembling fingers, and drew her 
chair nearer her father, but a little behind him, so 
that he could not see her without turning his head. 

“Papa,” said she in a musical voice, attenuated 
designedly, “I do not wish to leave you. In these 
times of anguish I have found that you are dearer — 
nearer, and better loved than all the world. I have 
discovered that others do not love you as you de- 
serve — and I have resolved to stay with you always.” 

Her voice died away entirely at the last sentence; 
she could not lie, and these words, without being an 
absolute falsehood, cost her a painful effort. 

“You wish to renounce your marriage!” said M. 
Leneil, greatly agitated. “Have you reflected; 
have you taken in consideration? — ” 

“ Papa,” she said in a low voice, “ I have been 
wounded, deeply wounded, by the conduct of Mme. 
Bertholon — and her son — on the subject of the mar- 
riage of Charles. I have found that neither of 
them are — what I believed them to be, and I would 
be unhappy all my life it — ” 

Her heart was too full, the tears flowed from her 
eyes and she hid her face in her hands; but only 
for a moment. 


142 


AURETTE. 


“ I prefer you above all others, papa,” she con- 
tinued, ‘‘you are the beginning and end of my 
thoughts; I could not leave you unless I knew that 
I was giving you a son, instead of depriving you of 
a daughter. You will permit me, will you not, to 
write to Mme. Bertholon that I have changed my 
mind?” 

M. Leneil remained agitated and perplexed; he 
looked by turns from the landscape to the house, 
seeking to collect the elements of a discussion upon 
this serious point. In his soul he knew that Aurette 
was right; Raoul could never have truly been his 
son. He liked the young man, but this liking 
stopped short of sympathy, and between himself 
and Mme. Bertholon, there had never been any 
congeniality. But he was concerned as to how it 
would appear to the eyes of the world. 

“You should reflect well, Aurette, before you 
break off a marriage which is so near at hand. You 
should have discovered sooner the things which 
offend you at present! After your brother’s un- 
fortunate marriage, a rupture like this will put the 
finishing touch to the prejudice already awakened 
against the family.” 


AURETTE. 


M3 


Aurette’s heart failed her. She must endeavor 
to defend herself cautiously, to offer a good excuse 
for doing it; and then perhaps be scolded for her 
obstinacy. 

She had not foreseen so many complications; she 
had thought that to say to her father; “I will remain 
with you!” would be to win a tender kiss for herself, 
and that afterward her wounded heart would be 
restored to peace and silence. She felt powerless 
to sustain a new struggle. 

“ I entreat you, papa,” she said, putting her arms 
around his neck, “not to insist upon it! You will 
make me so miserable. I know all you would say 
to me, for I have said it all to myself, and yet my 
resolution is unchanged. Make it easy for me, dear 
papa, I implore you!” 

He unwound her arms from his neck and, taking 
her hand within his own, he looked at her attentively. 

“Do you love someone else?” he asked with some 
inquietude. 

Aurette could control herself no longer. A bit- 
ter, nervous laugh shook her whole form, while the 
tears ran down her pale cheeks. She felt her 
strength and will forsaking her, and it seemed to 


144 


AURETTE. 


her that if she did not recover herself immediately, 
she would lose all power over her mind and body. 

Resisting this emotion with a superhuman effort, 
she quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks, and, 
though still trembling with excitement, she said to 
M. Leneil: 

“Forgive me, papa, but it is so funny, the idea 
of my loving anyone else; at least it sounds droll 
to me! No, I assure you this is not my reason.” 

“Why, then?” said her father, with a serious, 
almost severe, manner. 

“ Because they do not love us! ” she said with as 
much violence as her gentle nature was capable of 
showing. “ Because they know that we are unhappy 
on account of my brother’s marriage, and they have 
not written or spoken a word of sympathy for us; 
because they left without seeing us!” 

“Very well,” said M. Leneil, pressing her hand 
to stop her, “you are right. What you say is true; 
having been ill I have not allowed my mind to dwell 
upon their conduct until now. I will write Mme. 
Bertholon whatever you desire — ” 

Aurette interrupted him quickly. 

‘Please permit me to write, papa; in revoking 
your promise you might offend them, while I — well it 


AURETTE. 


145 


might be easier for me. If you will let me write, 
I will show you the letter before sending it.” 

M. Leneil bowed his head in assent, and Aurette 
rose to go, but he detained her. 

“Once more, my child, think of the world, think 
of the future, and of all they can say and do — ” 

“I have thought of it! it is decided! ” responded 
she, escaping from him. 

When she was hidden from him by two or three 
turns of the shady walk, she stopped and clasped 
her hands in an agony of despair. 

“Oh my God!” said she, “to have lied, to have 
lied for that! And to suffer thus without meriting 
it! What must the torments of the wicked be! Is 
it possible that one can suffer such anguish and 
live?” 

She walked to the house slowly, for her knees 
almost refused to support her, ascending the stair- 
case as if bowed beneath a heavy burden. When 
she reached her room she sat down before her desk 
and took out the letter which was already written. 
She read it over two or three times, assuring herself 
that all was as she wished it, then she bathed her 
face in cool water and returned to her father. 


146 


AURETTE. 


She saw him from afar, leaning back in his arm 
chair, with his eyes fixed on the skies of which he 
had a glimpse through the interstices of the foliage. 
He had an air of happy repose, but as Aurette drew 
nearer she could see the expression of his eyes and 
countenance more distinctly, and she understood 
better that he shared her resentment. Without 
speaking, she handed him the open letter which he 
read in silence: 

‘‘Dear Madam: My father has just passed 
through a very painful crisis which has made us very 
solicitous about his present and future health. 
Under the circumstances, I feel that my absolute 
duty is to devote, unreservedly, my entire time to 
him, until we no longer have any cause for fear. I 
cannot, consequently, fulfill the engagement which 
my father made with you in reference to my mar- 
riage with your son, and I beg you to release me 
from it. I hope that the motive which prompts me 
will render you indulgent to me, and I pray you to 
forgive me. Your sincere friend, 

Aurette Leneil.” 

“It is too cold and formal,” said M. Leneil, 
handing the letter to his daughter. 


AURETTE. 


147 


“ I assure you, papa, that they deserve nothing 
better.” 

“You will break off with them, abruptly! and 
all their friends.” 

Aurette bowed her head. 

“ It is necessary, papa!” she said insistently, 
“You do not wish to make me wretched? Think 
how long I have weighed this; since the marriage 
of my brother! Make no objections, I implore you!” 

“ Do as you like,” said M. Leneil, slowly. “ I 
believe that you know your own heart, my child. I 
have confidence in you, although this is not all quite 
clear to me. I shall understand it later on, no 
doubt.” 

“ Have you confidence in the doctor, papa?” 
demanded Aurette with a sudden animation. “ Well 
ask him if I am not right! I am sure that he will say 
that I could not have done otherwise.” 

Her father looked at her still with a troubled air, 
but in the depths of her truthful eyes he read so 
much sincerity and candid assurance that he felt 
his soul revive. 

“Kiss me,” he said, “I believe in you; I believe 
all that you have said and will say, for you are truth 
itself.” 


10 


148 


AURETTE. 


She stooped and kissed him. 

“And now/’ said she in a low voice, “we will 
never, never be separated.” 

He drew to his poor heart, sick and palpitating-, 
that young head as her lips vowed an eternal renun- 
ciation, and in his weakness and lassitude, he blessed 
her for her tender devotion. 

In the evening when M. Leneil was asleep, she 
wrote to Charles and told him the whole truth, with 
no extenuation or exaggeration. 

“You must know all,” she wrote him, “ in order 
to justify me in the future if I am accused of acting 
rashly. To spare my father a terrible humiliation, 
I have endured, evaded, deceived and lied. This 
has cost me even more than to renounce a life to 
which I had looked forward with so much joy. I 
do not wish you to think me cruel, dear Charles, 
and I do not reproach you, but it is necessary for 
you to know the extent of my sufferings. I loved 
my betrothed as deeply as you love your wife, and 
now I no longer love or esteem him. I have taken 
upon myself all the blame and responsibility; I 
cannot do more, and in acting thus, remember, I 
have had two motives. The first and more power- 
ful, was to spare our father; the second was to spare 


AURETTE. 


149 


you, in his eyes. If he ever knows that my mar- 
riage was broken off entirely on account of your 
own, he would never forgive you; while now I hope 
with time to lead him to wish for your return some 
day.” 

At this thought Aurette stopped to reflect. Was 
it possible that their family could ever be reunited 
at the Nest? That Charles forgiven and Sidonie 
changed, purified by time and trials, would once 
more make a part of the group around their father 
who would be restored and rejuvenated by the love 
and happiness of his children? 

She alone, then, must bear the weight of another’s 
fault. 

An intense bitterness awakened within her, in- 
creasing momentarily. She had a desire to revolt, 
to cry out for justice. A thousand cruel words 
rushed to her lips, a thousand tumultuous emotions 
seethed in her heart; she seized her pen to write 
down the cruel truth which she could no longer 
suppress, the legitimate lamentations which were 
stifling her. 

She rose and walked to the window which opened 
wide to the dark heavens. The pure, fresh night 
wind enveloped her suddenly as with wings; like 


150 


AURETTE. 


the tiny drops of condensed vapor upon cold and 
polished marble, the hurtful thoughts slipped from 
her soul and vanished. 

“No!” she cried with profound melancholy. 
“How can the sufferings of others alleviate my 
own! Is not Charles already punished enough? I 
must not be wicked. It is cruel and unjust that I 
should suffer, but if I am selfish and wicked, I will 
merit it.” 

“O my God!” she continued, bowing her head, 
‘‘at least permit me to die without having caused a 
pang of grief or suffering.” 

She closed the window and returned to her desk. 
With two or three affectionate words, she finished 
the letter and sealed it. She had fought her battle 
and won it. 


CHAPTER X. 


Between his two daughters, for Julia had comQ 
back to the Nest, M. Leneil was better and more 
promptly re-established than one could have hoped, 
This was the time most dreaded by Aurette and M. 
Rozel, when the town would be filling up gradually 
at the approach of winter, and the visits and meet- 
ings could not fail to bring upon the family many 
questions and comments. 

The doctor had built around his friend a rampart 
of defenses so strong, that it was necessary tu be 
very brave or mischievous to attempt to break 
through them. Besides, the men were much less 
agitated than their wives over the escapade of 
Charles; and as to Aurette’s broken engagement, it 
was not regarded as anything very remarkable, 
Raoul having always been severely censured for his 
indifference. Moreover, the great failure of a prom- 
inent banker in a neighboring town, which 'seriously 
involved a number of the citizens of Angers, having 
drawn attention, by contrast, to the perfectly honor- 
able and trustworthy transactions of the house of 


152 


AURETTE. 


Leneil & Co., M. Leneil found himself overwhelmed 
with marks of esteem, which touched him deeply. 

There was not much happiness for Aurette. 
Her lady friends, either from curiosity or interest, 
more than once made her suffer torture. No one 
dared to question her in regard to Sidonie, but the 
least allusion to the sad past, even though discreetly 
evoked, and accompanied by expressions of sym- 
pathy and compassion, revived anew the memories 
of those terrible experiences. 

On the other hand, she had received nothing but 
congratulations on the breaking off of her marriage, 
and Raoul Bertholon and his mother, whose haughty 
manners had made her unpopular, were severely 
criticized on all sides. Most of the speeches in 
reference to it would end in these words: 

“Well, my dear, it is a happy thing that your 
eyes ^ere opened in time, for poor M. Bertholon is 
so indolent that he will never make anything of 
himself.” 

Mile. Leneil listened in silence, bowing her head 
in thanks, and speaking of other things; but Julia, 
who nearly always accompanied her, could see how 
pale and weary her sister looked on their return 
from these visits. 


AURETTE. 


iS3 


In the Bertholon clan, however, they took mat- 
ters very resignedly. Raoul’s mother, enchanted at 
having obtained her son’s freedom, had refrained 
from speaking badly of Aurette. She had, on the 
contrary, exalted the virtues of that charming girl 
who had resolved to consecrate herself to her father, 
in order to soften his grief causedby theunpardonable 
conduct of his son and his adopted daughter. The 
absent ones had to bear all the burden of virtuous 
indignation of this excellent mother, who had no 
pity for them. 

Mme. Bertholon had good reason for her charity 
to Aurette. She had acted in such haste, to profit, 
as she confessed to herself, by a large inheritance 
which had been unexpectedly bequeathed to a young 
orphan, a distant relative, who hitherto had been 
of no importance, but who would now be a brilliant 
match. Aurette’s dowry could not compare with 
this, and Mme. Bertholon had determined that her 
son should be the happy possessor of this fortune. 

Raoul, however, remained melancholy, and 
showed no eagerness to gather the fruit of the 
maternal schemes. Laughed at by his friends 
unceasingly, he had had with his mother more than 
one quarrel. 


154 


AURETTE. 


“ I should have rejected your advice,” he declared 
to her very sharply. “I should have disowned your 
conduct and married Mile. Leneil; I will regret, my 
whole life, having so foolishly obeyed you.” 

But regrets were henceforth useless. He fre- 
quently met Aurette in company, into which M. 
Leneil now accompanied his two daughters; she 
responded to his respectful salute with a cold, cor- 
rect bow, which put between them the breadth and 
depth of an abyss. He felt that she no longer 
esteemed him, although he had never heard her 
pronounce his name with indifference, and this 
thought tormented the young man more than he 
would have believed it possible in other times. 
Besides, he had never dreamed that he could be so 
embarrassed by a look from Julia. 

Julia had been presented in society by her father, 
although she was scarcely seventeen years old: M. 
Leneil thought that after the unpleasant events of 
the preceding summer, they could not do better than 
to go out a great deal, and show themselves indif- 
ferent to idle gossip. He also believed that it was 
necessary for him to make every effort to turn his 
younger daughter from a vocation, the thought of 
which had greatly depressed him. 


AURETTE. 


155 

Although so young, she had manifested an 
ardent desire to devote herself to the care of the 
sick; an excessive religious excitement had after- 
ward inspired the idea of entering upon a monastic 
life, and in spite of the opposition — perhaps even 
on account of the opposition which this plan encoun- 
tered in her home, she was still so strongly attached 
to it as to give them great anxiety. 

Since the unfortunate occurrence which had ban- 
ished her brother from the paternal fireside, she 
had never made the least allusion to her future; 
seeing that her father wished her to share the social 
pleasures of her sister, she offered no resistance, 
and yet neither Aurette nor her father had dared 
to interrogate her on the subject. She followed 
them obediently and seemed to enjoy what passed 
around her. 

One evening, the Leneil family dined in a 
numerous and brilliant company at the house of 
Doctor Rozel, who was celebrating an event in his 
household. Being left a widower early in life, he had 
taken to live with him a widowed sister, without 
fortune, whose son, brought up under his care, had 
been absent at Paris finishing his course at a hos- 
pital. The young man had been recalled by his 


156 


AURETTE. 


uncle, who had so much confidence in him that he 
contemplated resigning to him his practice. 

‘‘Why should he not become a professor in our 
faculty?” said the good man, “it would be infinitely 
better than to remain in Paris, and be lost in the 
crowd.” 

It was to celebrate the return of thir new young 
doctor that M. Rozel had assembled his friends; it 
was also to assure himself that the handsome face 
and frank manners of Armand Deblay would win all 
of their sympathies. 

Encountering Julia’s violet eyes fixed upon him 
with a certain insistence, the good old physician 
went and sat beside her, settling himself as com- 
fortably as possible according to his habit. 

“You wish to speak to me?” said he, after assur- 
ing himself that their tete-a-tete would not be in- 
terrupted. 

“I wish a great many things of you; but since 
you have your nephew, you no longer care for any 
one.” 

“You are mistaken,” repbed M. Rozel, calmly, 
“besides, what more is necessary? We now have 
two doctors instead of one to care for the same 
patients.” 


AURETTE. 


157 


Julia flashed upon him a mocking smile in which 
he saw the gleam of barbed arrows. 

“Oh! yes! I know,” continued he, “ Moliere has 
still left you a few satires to address to us. Perhaps 
you desire to be a doctor yourself!” 

“Ah! but that would not be altogether disagree- 
able! However, there is time enough for that. But 
it is not of this that I wish to speak to you, doctor.” 

“I see what it is,” he replied maliciously, for he 
recalled, how only a few months previous, compli- 
ments had had the gift of pleasing her. “ You wish 
me to express my sentiments in regard to your 
charming appearance. Well, my dear girl, your 
dress is beautiful, and I beg to inform you that I 
am not ignorant of the fact!” 

“ It is true, my dress is beautiful. But were you 
going to say that it became me? I hope so, really.” 

“That goes without saying!” said the doctor, 
laughing. 

“I hate ambiguity,” said the young girl, sen- 
tentiously. 

“I perceive that you do. So, you perhaps will 
consent to spare me a preamble, and will give me a 
candid answer to a question I am going to ask you.” 

“ What is it?” 


AURETTE. 


I$* 

“ Do you still wish to enter a convent?” 

Julia's countenance grew more serious, and M. 
Rozel feared that he had wounded her; but she 
lifted her eyes almost immediately, and looking 
him in the face said: 

“No. Circumstances have made it impos- 
sible.” 

As he did not reply, she continued; “I have 
reflected; my dear ones are suffering, and will suf- 
fer more; papa does not need me, Aurette suffices 
him, but — ” 

“Aurette will marry,” concluded the doctor. 

“ It is not that; Aurette will not marry — ” 

“Oh! if after awhile — ” 

“You do not know my s.ster,” repeated Julia 
with the aplomb of youth, which is so droll when it 
is not impertinent, “ she will not marry, you may be 
sure.” 

“So after all you might go into a convent!” said 
the doctor, beginning to be amused. 

“No, for it is not my father who needs me, but 
my sister.” 

“Ah!” said M. Rozel, more seriously. 

“If Aurette is left alone with papa, the restraint 
will kill her,” said the young girl. 


AURETTE. 


159 

“ The restraint?” 

“You are a fine doctor not to know it! Have 
you felt my sister’s pulse since — well, you know 
since when? No? Well then you have not dis- 
covered it. If she could not be entirely alone from 
time to time, out of the house to — well, it matters 
not what — she v/ould die in a year or two — ” 

“Oh! she will soon forget it,” replied the doctor 
not wishing to attach any importance to the pre- 
diction. 

Julia looked at him with severity. 

“She will not forget it, and she will suffocate. 
Look at her now while she is talking.’’ 

“She is wonderfully beautiful,” said M. Rozel 
turning his head toward the corner of the drawing- 
room where Aurette was conversing with several of 
her friends. 

“ Granted; yet she is very thin.” 

“ So she is.” 

“Without a doubt; and she has fever every day 
or two.” 

“Sulphate of quinine,” suggested the doctor, 
concealing his uneasiness under a professional air, 
“and you must make her take it.” 


i6o 


AURETTE. 


“Certainly, and this is why it is necessary for 
me to remain at home.” 

“And you could not do better,” concluded the 
good man, pressing her hand affectionately. “ But 
really, Julia, do you believe that your sister is suffer- 
ing? She loved him then so well, this — ah! well!” 

Julia gave him one of those straight glances 
which impresses one like a blow. 

“She loved him — yes, she loved him. She loves 
him yet. Can you comprehend it?” 

The doctor could not refrain from laughing. 

“Pardon me,” said he, “I am not a young girl 
and I cannot answer you satisfactorily.” 

“Please do not jest! ” said Julia with a shade of 
indignation in her voice. “But can you understand 
how one can love a robber, a coward, a man who 
has conducted himself like this one?” 

The doctor placed upon the young girl’s arm, 
the large hand of a practitioner, so light and deli- 
cate in spite of its heavy appearance. 

“When one loves — you will understand this one 
of these days, my little girl — one loves without rea- 
son, immoderately; one recovers from this malady, 
but the convalescence is long and subject to relapses 


AURETTE. 


161 


— You are right; remain with your sister, watch over 
her until the time when you yourself will — ” 

“I?” exclaimed Julia indignantly, “I? Oh! the 
idea! ” 

M. Rozel rose from his chair and was gone 
before the young girl could finish her sentence. 

He wished that he had observed Aurette more 
closely; in fact, as he approached her he saw traces 
of suffering upon her delicate face; her cheeks were 
too brilliantly red, and her lips too pallid. 

Profiting by a moment when a group was separ- 
ating, he joined her. 

“You are not well, my child, ” said he gently, 
“you look weary; you have overworked yourself, 
and must have a rest.” 

“I am not suffering,” responded Aurette, blush- 
ing as if discovered in a fault. 

“ It matters not; you are impairing your health. 
Is that of no consequence?” 

Aurette turned her beautiful eyes upon the doc- 
tor with a glance as direct, but not as abrupt as that 
of her sister. 

“Yes,” she replied after an imperceptible hesita- 
tion, “for papa needs me; I must be brave and keep 
my health.” 


162 


AURETTE. 


“Very well! then I will come to see you tomor- 
row, and you must obey me implicitly. Besides I 
will put you in Julia’s hands.” 

“I will be well cared for then,” replied Aurette 
with a note of gayety in her voice, “if you only 
knew what a terrible person she is! ” 

“ I have just discovered to my sorrow,” re- 
sponded M. Rozel,” I really thought she would 
annihilate me. But you will be well in ten days, 
my dear child, and you can then be as useful as you 
wish to others, and to yourself later on — ” 

“She thanked him with a look which was not 
sad, but indifferent. 

“Oh! I!” said she, with a slight gesture which 
revealed a renunciation so profound, that the doctor 
was really pained. 

She smiled, and turning to her old friend, she 
changed the conversation. 

“The visit which M. Rozel made to the Nest on 
the following day was not at all reassuring. For 
several months, deceived by Aurette’s appearance, 
he believed her, if not gay, at least calm. She never 
alluded to the past, and with the tendency to believe 
that everything is going on for the best, which 


AURETTE. 163 

grows upon one, the older one is, he thought she 
was peacefully resigned to her lot. 

He discovered now that beneath this placid amia 
bility his young friend was hiding her terrible agony. 
Not that her health was seriously impaired, for at 
her age a wholesome, well-balanced nature may suf- 
fer much and long without it producing grave trou- 
bles in the organism, but it was Aurette’s mind that 
was ill, as the doctor found out after a short conver- 
sation with her. 

Aurette’s character had developed early; having 
the entire charge of the household at an age when 
young girls usually dream of pleasure, she had 
accustomed herself to watch over the welfare of 
others, before occupying herself with personal en- 
joyments. It was this almost unconscious abnega- 
tion which had given so much force to her love; 
instead of demanding it for herself, she had bestowed 
upon her lover all that was best and most noble 
within her. 

The ingratitude of Raoul Bertholon had pierced 

her soul, and if the word wound was applicable 

to a purely moral state, one might say that a wound 

had been deeply engraven upon it. Aurette was 

like a being deprived of one of her members, and 
11 


AURETTE. 


164 

who still feels the pain in the amputated limb. Her 
love was buried from her sight, but the place where 
it had been was bleeding and uncicatrized. 

As it always happens in catastrophes which 
momentarily arrest the current of life, Aurette’s 
sensibility had received a deep injury, and, if from 
force of habit, she still occupied herself with others, 
she had lost the spirit of activity which had charac- 
terized her formerly. Not only did she feel no in- 
clination to employ her strength and time as in the 
past, but she found a kind of listless enjoyment in 
watching the days glide by without result or profit. 
The indolence and torpor which succeeded the first 
violence of her grief, made her, who was once so 
good and generous, almost selfish, and indifferent 
to the suffering of others. The conflict she had sus- 
tained, the restraint which she had imposed upon 
herself had changed her so that she would not have 
recognized herself, had she been capable of judging. 

This was more dangerous than a physical malady, 
and the doctor was seriously concerned. A confi- 
dential talk with Julia disclosed more than he had 
ascertained himself, and he was really alarmed. 

“Papa does not perceive it,” concluded the 
young girl, “but Aurette is becoming an old maid, 


AURETTE. 


165 


and I would not be astonished should she end by 
living alone with a cat and a parrot, like the rest of 
them.” 

“Tut, tut!” said the doctor, “one’s whole nature 
is not metamorphosed in six months, and Aurette 
is made of pure gold; your father has said this a 
hundred times, and he is right. It is time for re- 
action though.” 

“ React then!” said Julia, sagely. “It makes me 
forget my grammar. I have tried everything in 
which she used to be interested. She no longer 
cares for the poor; she gives them money, but she 
doesn’t want to see them or hear anything about 
them. And she never speaks of what she is think- 
ing; there are moments when I imagine she no 
longer loves me.” 

“That will return, that will return!” repeated 
the doctor, consolingly; but in his heart he was not 
reassured. 

Charles wrote regularly; he was comfortably 
established at Bombay, and his affairs prospering. 
He gave his father graphic descriptions of his life 
and surroundings, mentioning his wife, without hav- 
ing anything special to say about her. Sidonie had 
wished it so. She never sent a personal message to 


AURETTE. 


1 66 

any member of the family, and Julia, who took this 
conduct deeply to heart, was indignant at her indif- 
ference to Aurette. 

“ I do not understand,” said she to her sister one 
day, “why you are not more hurt at her ingratitude, 
you were so kind, so kind, to her — ” 

Aurette, who was preparing a cup of tea for M. 
Leneil, placed upon the table a little china tea-pot. 

“If our house should burn and all our posses- 
sions be destroyed, should we be much concerned 
at the loss of this?” said she, pointing to the fragile 
thing. 

Julia gazed at her sister with astonished eyes, 
but Aurette busied herself with the teapot, and did 
not seem to wish to continue the conversation. 
But her sister was tenacious, and after a moment, 
returned to the attack. 

“ Does Charles know all the consequences of his 
beautiful folly?” she asked in a low voice, for their 
father was in the adjoining apartment. 

“ He does,” responded Aurette, briefly. 

“What has he written you?” 

“ That he would give his life rather than it should 
have happened. Ah! my God! it is very easy to 
offer his life when no one demands it of him! It is 


AURETTE. 167 

much easier than to begin it again, when one no 
longer wishes it.” 

“Aurette!” exclaimed Julia in a voice stifled with 
tears, rushing to her and clutching her by the arm, 
as if she were standing on the brink of a precipice. 

Mile. Leneil, surprised at first, yielded herself 
to her sister’s embrace, and passing her hand affec- 
tionately over her golden curls, said sweetly: 

“This is foolish, dear, calm yourself.” 

M. Leneil entered the room and Aurette hastened 
to prepare his arm-chair, then offering him the tea, 
warm, and sweetened to his taste, she sat beside 
him to read to him, without betraying the least 
emotion. 

“She frightened me!” said Julia to M. Rozel, in 
recounting to him this incident, three or four days 
later. 

“ It is important that she should take a great deal 
of exercise,” replied the doctor. “ I am going to 
give her a large dog, and insist upon her taking 
long walks with him alone. This will perhaps pre- 
vent her from becoming misanthropical; there is 
nothing like the society of a dog for reconciling 
one to mankind, says a philosopher.” 


AURETTE. 


1 68 

This panacea, however, was unsuccessful, at least 
as to the moral. Aurette accepted the great Saint 
Bernard which he brought her, and obeyed his 
orders to take interminable walks in the neighbor- 
hood of the Nest, but she still preserved her cold 
tranquillity, broken now and then by a bitter word, 
concealed under the form of renunciation. 

Julia wrote Charles ten pages of reproaches, and 
received in response six pages of excuses, in which 
he accused himself with bitter remorse, but this did 
not alter the situation. M. Leneil began to perceive 
the change in his daughter, and was greatly de- 
pressed by it; Julia trembled lest he should fall ill. 

Their lives drifted onward in this manner for 
many months, bringing the succession of the seasons 
without disturbing the apparent peace of a house- 
hold, in which each one concealed from the other, 
a sorrow or a secret inquietude. 


CHAPTER XI. 


One day in December, the following winter, M. 
Leneil returned to the Nest a little late for dinner; 
an unwonted animation gave to his eyes a brilliancy, 
and a fresh color to his usually pale cheeks. He 
seated himself at the table with an air at once con- 
tented and abstracted, and all during the repast he 
showed signs of preoccupation by which Julia pro- 
fited to make him laugh. 

The past year had singularly ripened the young 
girl. From her habit of ministering to the wants 
of her father and sister, she had acquired an uncon- 
sciousness of self, which alone can give perfect ease 
of speech and action. Her features, formerly some- 
what angular, had rounded exquisitely and were in 
perfect harmony with her graceful movements. 

By a strange reversion of things, there were 
moments when she seemed the “little mother” to 
Aurette, who often mechanically turned to her 
younger sister for the solution of some difficulty. 

When dinner was over they repaired to the 
drawing-room, and M. Leneil looked at his two 


170 


AURETTE. 


daughters, one after the other, with an amused ex- 
pression and finally said: 

“ A strange thing happened to-day: I have re- 
ceived an offer of marriage for each of you.' 

“Ah!” said Julia briefly. 

She hermetically sealed her lips and looked at 
her sister. 

Aurette was silent, but a vivid blush suddenly 
suffused her face and neck. It had been a long 
time since the blood had thus mounted to her deli- 
cate cheeks. 

“Yes,” replied M. Leneil, “for both of you, and 
I must confess, my dear children, that outside of all 
other considerations, this double proposition has 
given me deep satisfaction, for the two suitors 
belong to the best part of the best society of 
Angers.” 

“Ah!” repeated Julia with the same abruptness, 
and without taking her eyes from her sister. 

M. Leneil named the two men; a fresh wave of 
crimson dyed Aurette’s cheeks. Julia contented 
herself with shaking her head with a knowing air. 

“We have evidently risen in importance,” said 
she with undisturbed serenity, “and now, papa, will 
you, if you please, explain to us which one is for 


AURETTE 


171 

Aurette and which for me? Unless you do we can 
hardly express our real sentiments.” 

To their great astonishment, Aurette began to 
laugh, a real, young, merry laugh, the like of which 
they had not heard since the marriage of Charles. 
Julia looked at her almost in alarm, so improbable 
did this gayety seem. Her sister reassured her with a 
mischievous glance, which was so unforeseen in those 
sad, calm eyes. 

“ Julia is right, papa,” said she, “for if you do 
not, we might both agree upon the same young 
man.” 

In their turn M. Leneil and his younger daughter 
laughed heartily. These joyous sounds resounded 
through the drawing-room in soft chords which 
vibrated musically, and Bruno, who was roaming on 
the terrace, came and pressed his nose against the 
window with a whine of entreaty. 

M. Leneil — a thing which he had never done 
before — opened the window for the good dog, who, 
a little embarrassed at this unwonted privilege, 
bounded in and crouched at the feet of his mistress. 

“Bruno in the drawing-room!” exclaimed Julia, 
“this is surely a merry day. Profit by it, old fellow, 
for as soon as we have recovered our senses, papa 


172 


AURETTE. 


will conduct you to the stable. But, papa, come, 
explain yourself; is M. Vernois forme and M. Dau- 
bray for Aurette, or the contrary ?” 

“You know well enough it is the contrary, you 
little actress,” replied M. Leneil, smiling. “Well, 
Aurette, what say you?” 

Aurette’s countenance had already lost its ani- 
mation, and after a moment’shesitation she answered 
gravely: 

“ I am very grateful, papa, and greatly flattered. 
You understand why, I think — But I do not wish to 
marry. I will never marry.” 

Julia and her father exchanged glances, involun- 
tarily. 

“Never is a very strong word, my child,” said 
M. Leneil, “ I hope you will change your mind; and 
if you will permit me to express my opinion, you 
will not often find so desirable a match as this one 
is in every respect; family, position, fortune, age, 
and personal merit — all united — ” 

Aurette had risen with a movement of nervous 
embarrassment; resting her hands upon the little 
table which separated her from her father, she spoke 
to him without turning away her brown eyes which 


AURETTE. 


173 


had in them the same sweet tenderness of other 
days. 

“I will not marry, papa,” said she, ‘‘because I 
will not sell myself, for position or anything else, 
and because it will always be impossible for me to 
have a feeling of love for any man, whatever he 
may be. I have had sufficient time to reflect, eight 
months, and I am convinced of the firmness of my 
resolution, and nothing can change me.” 

She remained standing, but with averted eyes, 
compressed lips and an air of concentration which 
changed the ordinary expression of her beautiful 
face. M. Leneil looked at her so intently that 
Julia shuddered. What would happen if he should 
question Aurette, and she should permit herself to 
reveal the secret of her wounded heart, so carefully 
guarded up to this moment? 

“ Papa,” said she pleasantly, “ leave Aurette to 
her whims, and interrogate me, please! Have I not 
also a right to be consulted a little in this matter? 
I am eighteen, you know, papa, and marriageable.” 

With an effort, M. Leneil bestowed his attention 
on his younger daughter. 

s ‘You are right,” said he, still with an abstracted 
manner, “ does your suitor please you?” 


174 


AURETTE. 


“If I were to tell you that he pleased me, you 
would be greatly astonished, papa, for you have not 
counted upon my leaving you.” 

“However,” said he, determined to accomplish 
his paternal task conscientiously, “I would advise — ” 

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Julia. “ Do not 
weary yourself discussing it, papa; you are -right, 
and I know beforehand much of what you would 
prudently and sensibly advise; but — I am not like 
Aurette — I intend to marry; only, not yet.” 

“My dear girls,” said M. Leneil, “you have 
placed me in a very embarrassing position.” 

“Not I,” said Julia, “for is it not evident that I 
am much too young. Look at these thin arms and 
this undeveloped figure! Wait till I have acquired 
enough embonpoint to do honor to your house. It is 
Aurette who has embarrassed you; she has not the 
same excuses as I.” 

“ Papa,” said Aurette, who was once more com- 
plete mistress of herself, “say to M. Vernois that 
I am inexpressibly grateful for the honor he has 
done me; tell him also, that had I wished to marry 
I would have chosen him in preference to all others, 
for he is a brave man, and as good as he is brave 


AURETTE. 


175 


and intelligent; but I will remain unmarried — an 
old maid.” 

She leaned over her father and embraced him 
tenderly, then left the room in order to cut short 
the discussion. M. Leneiland Juliaremained alone, 
looking at each other in silence. Bruno, waking 
from his nap, after looking about him with astonished 
eyes, rose and put his nose under the crack of the 
door. Julia opened the door for him and he ran to 
join his mistress. 

“Papa, do not torment Aurette; she has de- 
cided—” 

“But why?” said M. Leneil, “I have never even 
understood why she broke off with the Bertholons. 
What happened? Anything which I do not know?” 

Although inwardly agitated, Julia forced herself 
to pacify her father, at least for the present. His 
amour-propre had been more flattered by these two 
proposals than he could have believed possible. 
The mortification caused by his son’s marriage and 
the gossip concerning it, had been very distressing 
to him; in spite of the extenuating circumstances, 
he felt how much the event had been discussed and 
censured. A kind of morbid sensitiveness had made 
him, more than once, take to himself words and 


\ 


176 AURETTE. 

allusions which were never intended for him. That 
men as distinguished as these should wish to become 
his sons-in-law, was to him an evidence that all 
prejudice had vanished, and from that moment he 
was more like his old self. 

The same impression, though not apparent, had 
been produced upon Aurette’s mind. Without 
changing her outward demeanor, she felt less em- 
bittered than heretofore; the honor of having been 
sought in marriage by so distinguished a man re- 
compensed her for the mortifications of the past. 
Her self-love ceased to suffer and her spirits, so 
long bearing the burden of the offense, were once 
more free. 

Great news had arrived from India; in a few 
weeks Sidonie would become a mother. M. Leneil 
displayed no emotion, when his daughter spoke to 
him of the expected event. Since the departure of 
the young couple, he had received many letters from 
his son without responding to them. Aurette took 
charge of the correspondence and gave Charles 
encouragement unceasingly. 

She felt no resentment toward her brother, and 
scarcely any to Sidonie, whom she had had ample 


AURETTE. 


I 77 


time to know during her childhood. Far from shar- 
ing Julia’s ill-will towards their sister-in-law, she felt 
for her a kind of pity which resembled indifference 
more than kindness. She could not be indulgent to 
a woman whose nature rendered her incapable of 
lofty sentiments, and she did not even bear her 
malice for having deceived her with affectionate 
words, at the very moment she was plotting an act 
which would have such cruel results. 

“ But,” said Julia, who was pitiless on the sub- 
ject of Sidonie, “ she told you that if she were on 
the verge of some folly or rash act, she would think 
of you, and this would make her pause. She said 
it, or I have dreamed it.” 

“She said it, but what does that prove? That 
she did not think of me at the right moment! Oh 
no, she did not think of me!” repeated Aurette a 
little bitterly. And yet, after all, it is a matter of 
indifference to me!” 

“Indifference! Aurette, you say that it is a mat- 
ter of indifference to you? But papa, and I — and 
Charles — ” 

“You all are the family, a part of myself, but as 
for the rest — ” 


i 7 8 


AURETTE. 


Nothing can express the apathy with which she 
pronounced this word. 

“And our brother’s child?” said Julia, determined 
even to risk reproaches in order to rouse her from 
this passive state. 

“His child — poor little one — papa would have 
been so happy — ” 

A kind of tender compassion nearly overcame 
her, but she resisted it, and submitted calmly to her 
sister’s loving kiss. 

“You know,” said she with a mixture of severity 
and gentleness which had become her ordinary 
manner, “that papa must see Charles one time or 
another; I am not speaking of Sidonie. If he could 
see the child, he might perhaps become attached to 
it. Poor papa! he had so much wished for grand- 
children, and now — ” 

She sighed faintly and resumed the work which 
she had laid aside to converse with her sister. 

Julia, however, was sure of her connivance, even 
though tacit, and in spite of the aversion with which 
Sidonie inspired her, she resolved, for the sake of 
the expected little one, to gain the heart of M. 
Leneil. 


AURETTE. 


179 


Her father’s heart was more vulnerable than 
even he himself would have believed. In spite of 
the painful impressions which were awakened inev- 
itably at the memory of the culprits, time had 
effected its work of reconciliation. From the 
almost indefinable shades of his changing moods, 
Julia soon learned to distinguish the times when she 
could venture to speak of Charles, from those when 
she must refrain from mentioning him. Aurette, 
solicited by a look of entreaty, would lend her aid 
to the conversation, and gradually they won his 
silent approbation to their speaking of the exile in 
his presence. Julia, who knew no such word as 
obstacle, one day risked herself upon dangerous 
ground. 

“When Charles returns to Angers,” she began. 

Aurette, alarmed, looked quickly at her father who 
feigned not to be listening. The audacious girl 
completed her sentence, otherwise of no import- 
ance, and passed on to another subject. 

This was a great point to have gained. After 
this day, she often talked, a little at a time, of his 
return as perfectly natural, and although he never 

appeared to hear her, M. Leneil followed the 

12 


i8o 


AURETTE. 


conversation with an agitated attentiveness, which 
she did not fail to observe. 

One Sunday, as they were walking slowly in the 
garden, while halting a moment under the great 
plane-tree, she saw her father’s eyes fixed upon two 
windows on the second floor of the house. It was 
the old nursery of his children, where the three sur- 
viving ones and the two who had died early, had 
learned the beginnings of life. Julia slipped her 
arm into his, and pointing to the windows, said: 

“The gratings must be replaced, you see, papa; 
the old ones are worn out.” 

“ They had better be removed altogether,” re- 
sponded M. Leneil still gazing at the old nursery 
meditatively. 

“You forget, papa, that they will have to be 
repaired for Charles’ little one.” 

M. Leneil continued his walk without replying 
to her, and in a few moments they returned to the 
drawing-room; he settled himself comfortably in 
his arm-chair and took up a late review behind 
which he screened his face, but his daughter, who 
was watching him from the corner of her eye, saw 
there an expression of sweetness w r hich had not 


AURETTE. 


1 8 1 


been upon his countenance for many months, and it 
seemed to her a happy omen. 

An incident which no one could foresee or avoid, 
disturbed anew their hopes for the future. 

On returning from Angers one day, M. Leneil 
made a sign to Julia, who from force of circum- 
stances had become his confidant in a number of 
delicate matters. She followed him into his study, 
and he closed the door. 

“Raoul Bertholon is to be married,” said he 
mysteriously. 

“He will marry his heiress, I suppose,” said she 
disdainfully, “and his dear mamma ought to be con- 
tented!” 

“How must we break it to Aurette?” continued 
her father; “Doctor Rozel has just told me of it; it 
is being discussed in town, and he is anxious that 
Aurette should not hear it there first.” 

“ He might tell her himself. Suppose you invite 
him to dinner, with his perfection of a nephew; in 
the conversation after dinner we might more easily 
introduce the subject than when we three were 
alone.” 

“Very well,” said M. Leneil, “I will invite them 
very soon.” 


182 


AURETTE. 


“ Don’t forget the nephew, papa,” said Julia, “that 
boy amuses me!” 

“That boy” was nearly six feet tall, with a luxu- 
riant chestnut beard, and brown eyes almost as 
beautiful as Aurette’s; he seemed in fact to greatly 
amuse Julia, for they never failed to disagree upon 
a thousand points of detail, afterward to find them- 
selves perfectly in accord upon the whole, and she 
had a way of looking at him scornfully, during 
their quarrels, which testified to her complete and 
malicious satisfaction. 

At four o’clock that afternoon, when M. Leneil 
turned the corner of the quiet old street where Doc- 
tor Rozel lived, he found himself face to face with 
his notary. 

“Well,” exclaimed the notary, “congratulate 
yourself on having made a beautiful escape!” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Mme. Bertholon — ” he stopped a moment to 
see that no one was listening. 

“ I know; she is about to marry her son off — You 
are not going to draw up the settlements, my friend?” 

“ Her son is about to marry, yes; but it is not 
that. She is also about to lose half of her fortune 
in the Bosnie mines.” 


AURETTE. 1 83 

“Ah!” replied M. Leneil, moderately interested 
and still less sympathetic, “This is unfortunate!” 

“ Permit me to contradict you, my dear sir; it is 
but just. Providence is punishing Her for the infamous 
way in which she conducted herself toward you.” 

Following the principle of instantaneous crystal- 
lization, a thousand incoherent thoughts in the 
thousandth part of a second crowded into M. 
Leneil’s mind, and he at once divined the secret 
which they had so carefully guarded from him. 
The shock was so violent that he was forced to 
make a great effort in order to keep from falling. 

“In fact,” said he, not without difficulty, “ she 
did merit punishment.” 

“ Her son is marrying a considerable fortune, 
however — he knows how to make himself fall in 
love, the happy architect — but his mother will not 
have much left, and I strongly doubt if the daugh- 
ter-in-law will invite her to share her splendor — - 
Good-evening, sir; my regards to the young ladies.” 

He turned the corner and was soon out of sight. 
M. Leneil took several steps, mechanically, and 
reaching the doctor's he seized the bell and pulled 
it with all his strength. A moment later he was ir 
the consultation room upon a sofa, and his frienc 


AURETTE. 


I84 

was bending over him, bathing his forehead with 
camphor. 

“ What has happened to me?” said he, endeavor- 
ing to rise. 

“ A sudden dizziness,” replied the doctor, “it is 
over now. What caused it?” 

M. Leneil raised himself as best he could, though 
still somewhat faint. 

“ Doctor,” said he, “it was Mme. Bertholon who 
broke off the marriage, and not my daughter.” 

“My faith!” exclaimed M. Rozel, “but since you 
have found it out, there is no necessity for decep- 
tion. Yes, it was she.” 

“And my daughter, my poor Aurette — Ah! my 
friend, she is an angel!” 

“Exactly — but compose yourself and sit down; 
we can talk of her just as well sitting.” 

M. Leneil obeyed, and after a long meditation 
he said: 

“This is terrible; what she must have endured; 
and her courage saved me! At her age to bear such 
a burden. Did you know it, doctor?” 

“ Certainly, I took upon myself the responsibility 
of concealing from you this sad story.” 

15 But how did it all happen?” 


AURETTE. 


IS 5 


In a few words, M. Rozel recounted to him his 
participation in the matter. When he finished 
speaking, his friend grasped his hand. 

“You have saved,” said he, “not our honor, for 
that has been above reproach, but the dignity of 
our house, and in keeping me in ignorance of it, 
you have surely saved my life — Ah! if I had known 
of that letter! You know I am not wicked, doctor, 
but I would have been capable of murdering some 
one — the mother or the son — the miserable coward!’ 

“No,” replied the doctor gently, “say rather, 
the poor devil! — He is not a villain, and I assure 
you that he will be punished, if he is not already. 
Think of it; from under the yoke of a despotic mother 
he falls, nearly penniless — note that, under that of 
a woman older than he, who is very rich, but whose 
education has not prepared her for her fortune; a 
woman without distinction, manners, accomplish- 
ments. I swear to you that, guilty as he is, I pity 
him. And he loves Aurette.” 

“Not enough!” exclaimed M. Leneil, brusquely. 
“ And I fear that the announcement of this mar- 
riage will bring fresh sorrow to my daughter. Poor 
child! she is so changed! I did not understand it; 
believing her to be the author of the rupture, I 


1 86 


AURETTE. 


could not explain why she should have changed so 
greatly. I sometimes accused her of coldness. 
She hid her sufferings from me with an incredible 
fidelity. And will you believe me, doctor, when I 
tell you that she is full of kindness for her brother?” 

“ It does not surprise me,” replied the doctor; 
“ Aurette possesses the spirit of charity to a remark- 
able degree. Besides, we now know that Mme. 
Bertholon had already in view this heiress, whom 
she is forcing her son to marry, and Charles’ esca- 
pade was only pretext.” 

‘‘Speak no more of him!” cried M. Leneil. “ It 
is he who has brought this shame and mortification 
upon our house. If he had only acted against my 
wishes, I would have found it hard to forgive him, 
but now that I know — To see my daughter repulsed 
by these Bertholons! In truth, it is more humiliating 
than for me to know that I have for a daughter-in- 
law the child of a bankrupt suicide. No, doctor, 
make no excuses for him!” 

“After all,” said the brave old doctor, “Charles 
is not so culpable as Sidonie; it was she — ” 

“Charles is a man, let him defend himself. Her 
I despise; but my son — speak of him no longer — it 
is useless.” 


AURETTE. 


1 8 ; 


After obtaining his promise to come with his 
nephew to dine next day at the Nest, M. Leneil 
took his leave, a prey to so many confused senti- 
ments that he had lost all idea of time, and almost 
believed^ himself borne back to the epoch of the 
events which had so sadly changed the happy life 
of his little family. 

On entering the Nest, and seeing Aurette coming 
to meet him, so different from the Aurette of other 
days, he plunged abruptly into realities. Overcome 
with emotion, he took her face between his hands 
and gazed into the depths of her beautiful eyes as 
if seeking to get a glimpse of the devoted soul 
which had suffered in silence for love of him. 

Disquieted at first, Aurette endeavored to disen- 
gage herself, but seeing that her father’s eyes were 
dim with tears, she suddenly comprehended that he 
knew her secret. A blush of wounded modesty 
mounted to her cheeks, and throwing herself upon 
his breast, she hid herself from the look which 
opened all her wounds. 

He enfolded her in his fatherly embrace, as if 
to shelter her from all harm, and led her, or rather 
permitted her to lead him, to the drawing-room, 


1 88 


AURETTE. 


where she made him sit in his arm-chair. He still 
retained her hand. 

“Aurette,” said he in a low voice, “you have 
deceived me — My poor child! what love, what 
devotion!” 

“Papa,” said she, “to what are you alluding?” 

“ You know very well! What is most surprising 
to me is that I have not discovered it sooner. But 
you kept your secret well, you dear guardian angel!” 

“ Let us think of it no longer, papa, I am angry 
that any one should have disturbed your peace.” 

She spoke without agitation, with the tranquil 
coldness which she had acquired in the past year, 
and which contrasted so strangely with the affec- 
tionate warmth of her manners in other days. Her 
father suddenly realized this change, and it pierced 
his heart. 

“My child, my dear child!” said he in a stifled 
voice, “they have broken your heart!” 

The icy bands which were around the soul of 
Aurette burst asunder as if she had received a vio- 
lent shock. She saw her father bowed down with 
grief for her, and the memory of his whole life of 
tenderness and generosity came to her with such 
vehemence that she could not resist it; tears flowed 


AURETTE. 


I89 

from her eyes which had been so long dry, she 
threw herself into her father’s arms like a wounded 
bird returning to its nest. 

She wept bitterly for a long time in silence, upon 
the dear, paternal heart that was bleeding for her; 
he gently passed his hand over her hair, and from 
time to time kissed the pure forehead upon which 
grief had left its ineffaceable mark. At last she 
lifted her head and wiped her brown eyes, whose 
velvety softness seemed to have been born again 
with the tears, and said sadly: 

“Poor papa, I had so much wished to spare you 
this! ” 

“And I, my child, regret deeply that I was not 
strong enough to have received the shock myself, to 
have softened its violence for you. You have been 
the true head of the house for nearly a year, while I 
have been incapable of protecting you.” 

The memory of his son’s folly returned to him, 
and the expression on his face was more stern. 

“Now,” he continued, “I am in a proper state to 
defend my own, and I will defend them.” 

“No one dreams of disturbing us, papa,” re- 
sponded Aurette with a gentleness which recalled 
her old self. 


AURETTE. 


I go 

“So be it; but it remains to me to stand between 
you and the sorrows — ” He shuddered as he 
thought of Raoul’s marriage, and of the necessity 
of announcing it to his daughter. 

“I will have no more sorrows, papa,” said she,“ I 
do not believe that it would be possible for me to 
be affected by anything, at least which does not 
concern you or Julia.” 

“M. Leneil looked at her with an air of doubt; 
she understood it and continued with some warmth: 

“Nothing, papa, I assure you, and I know 
whereof I speak. I have emptied the cup to the 
dregs. I have known the humiliation which comes 
from without, and that which comes from one’s 
self — I have been ashamed of myself for being 
grieved, after having blushed at seeing myself 
treated thus; I have repressed my tears that you 
might not see them; I have spent days and nights 
questioning myself how it could ever have happened, 
always as astonished, as upon the first day, that a 
man could have so little heart and dignity. I began 
in sorrow and ended in indignation. And now that 
twenty months have passed over my grief, I can say 
to you truthfully that nothing can any longer astonish 
or touch me.” 


AURETTE. 


IQI 

She was once more the haughty, indifferent 
Aurette of the past year. 

‘•Do not speak in this manner, my child!” said 
M. Leneil, drawing her to him, “you alarm me!” 

“What would you have me say, papa? My life 
is ruined in every way. I no longer love any one 
but you and Julia; I no longer believe in any one 
or pity any one, outside of those who are dear to 
me. It is not my fault. I would have it different. 
I am neither wicked nor hard hearted, but I cannot, 
no, I cannot any longer be affected by the sufferings 
of others. After what I have endured in silence, 
other people’s sorrows appear to me as less than 
nothing — and then too others console themselves, 
while I — ” 

She turned away her beautiful face which was 
now as white as marble. Her father drew her to 
him. 

“Did you then love him so?” he asked in a low 
voice. 

“I loved him so! May God forgive me, papa, 
but I loved him foolishly. I loved him more than 
all but honor. I loved him more than you, since I 
would have left you to follow him. He was all in 
all to me! I adored him! I would have joyfully 


IC2 


AURETTE. 


been his slave. I would have loved him poor, infirm^ 
repulsive. I have heard of women who were weaned 
from their husbands because they were afflicted 
with some horrible malady, and I have asked myself 
what I should do if such a thing should happen to 
him. I know that I would always have loved him 
until death, through every misery. I loved the 
place where he stood, the air which he breathed, 
and see — since he is gone, I never notice a flower, 
there are no more bouquets in the house. I loved 
the flowers only that I might give them to him, it 
seemed to me that my soul went out to him with 
their fragrance. All this is destroyed, nothing of 
my life remains but my duty and affection for 
you, papa.” 

M. Leneil put his hand over his eyes. He had 
never dreamed that the soul of this gentle, light' 
hearted girl contained such depths of tenderness; 
how had it ever given birth to this ardent passion? 
No one would ever know. 

“I hope I have not grieved you,” she said, “but 
I could restrain myself no longer; after so long a 
silence, I had to speak. Forgive me, papa, and 
believe me when I tell you that my only happiness 
is in you.” 


AURETTE 


193 


She stooped to kiss him. As feeble as he felt 
himself he knew that the moment had come for him 
to reveal the truth to her. 

“You say that nothing can any longer grieve 
you,” said he, “and yet should he marry — ” 

“ I am prepared for that,” she replied in a calm 
voice. 

“Even if he made an advantageous marriage?” 

“ He could never make any other kind,” said she 
coldly. 

“ I have learned — ” M. Leneil still hesitated. 

“That he is to be married?” said she. “To 
whom ?” 

“ A distant cousin, very rich, but without edu- 
cation.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Aurette. Then after a short 
silence she added: “This is as it should be. This 
marriage avenges me.” 

“Assuredly,” cried her father, “and this will be 
the opinion of everybody. Besides, there is some- 
thing else: Mme. Bertholon is nearly penniless.” 

Aurette lifted her head proudly. 

“Really,” she said, “that was not needed; I 
would be avenged without it.” 


194 


AURETTE. 


Julia entered the room, a little uneasy at the pro- 
longed conversation. 

“Have you heard,” said Aurette, with a certain 
sneering note in her voice which had become 
familiar to Julia, but which depressed M. Leneil 
who had never heard it before. “Have you heard 
that M. Bertholon is to be married, and his mother 
has lost her fortune? Great news for one day!” 

She walked slowly toward the door, leaving her 
sister and father startled; upon the threshold she 
turned and said: 

“If I had need of consolation this would con- 
sole me, and if I were still suffering this would 
cure me.” 

She then left the room; her dog, who was wait- 
ing for her in the hall, came to lick her hand, but 
she passed on without noticing him and went up to 
her room. Five minutes later she descended the 
staircase perfect mistress of herself apparently. 

Several times during dinner Bruno came to whine 
at the glass door which opened upon the terrace; 
the snow was falling in large flakes; a February 
snow, thick and resistant. 

“Papa,” said Julia compassionately, “let us open 


AURETTE. 


195 


the door for Bruno! See how cold it is out of 
doors.” 

“ It is useless,” said Aurette in her calm voice. 
“Dogs are made to be patient as men are to suffer.” 

“ M. Leneil and Julia exchanged glances. In a 
few moments Bruno’s fleece was entirely covered 
with snow, and the poor dog remained immovable 
before the glass which separated him from his mis- 
tress and the blazing fireside. 

“Take Bruno to the kitchen,” said M. Leneil to 
a servant, “ and see that they give him his supper.” 

Aurette said nothing. That evening as she 
passed through the back hall, making her rounds as 
mistress of the house, she stumbled over Bruno who 
was stretched out at the foot of the steps. On see- 
ing her, he lifted his head with a sad, submissive air. 
She put down her candle, and affectionately caressed 
his shaggy head. 

“Poor old fellow,” she murmured, “forgive me; 
if you only knew how I suffer!” 

And stepping across the body of the grateful 
animal, she went immediately to her room. 


13 


CHAPTER XII. 


By a word, M. Leneil had warned the doctorthat 
he need not perform his delicate mission; the good 
man had arrived at the Nest in his most brilliant 
humor and his gayest spirits. During the repast, 
which was presided over by Aurette with an affa- 
bility, a little forced, which had supplanted her 
graceful ease of former days, he teased Julia inces- 
santly, provoking from her the most extraordinary 
responses, which more than once brought a smile 
to the lips of his nephew, Armand Deblay. 

Even Aurette could not refrain from laughing at 
the droll manner in which her sister parried the 
doctor’s attacks, and her laughter fell like sweet 
music upon her father’s ears. 

In spite of the grief which she had experienced 
the evening before, the young girl seemed in better 
spirits. Raoul’s marriage, which would definitely 
close one period of her life, turned the current of 
her thoughts into a new channel, and as painful as 
was to her the necessity of despising him entirely, 


AURETTE. 


197 


she found therein a certain repose; the era of 
doubts and indecisions had disappeared forever. 
She felt a relief, yet there was much bitterness 
mixed with it; if she had expressed her sentiments 
in words, she would have said that she was now at 
liberty to despise Raoul Bertholon. 

When the friends were assembled in the draw- 
ing-room after dinner, M. Rozel directed his attacks 
to Aurette. 

‘‘Why are there no longer any flowers nere?” he 
demanded. “ I am accustomed to seeing this house 
full of them, and it was a charming custom. There 
are only green plants! I do not wish to slander the 
green plants, but I loved your bouquets and heavy 
baskets, my child. ,, 

“ Aurette turned away her head and murmured 
an excuse which M. Rozel did not hear. 

“ How is the conservatory looking?” he continued 
imperturbably. 

“Not badly, the gardener has it in charge,” 
replied Mile. Leneil. 

“And you?’” 

She turned upon him her beautiful brown eyes 
where burned a restless fire. 


AURETTE. 


I98 

“I no longer love flowers,”* she said almost 
harshly. 

“ Tis a pity,” responded the doctor calmly. 
And music?” 

“ Oh! music — one can always make some kind 
of music! ” 

“That is true. Well, give us a little of whatever 
kind you like.” 

Without waiting to be urged, Aurette went to 
the piano and played two pieces of a widely differ- 
ent character: one a prelude -by Bach, the other a 
brilliant composition by Rubenstein. Shehad made, 
technically speaking, remarkable progress, but she 
had lost as much in delicacy of touch and depth of 
-feeling as she had gained in the purity of her 
execution. 

“ I like her old method better,” whispered M. 
Leneil into the ear of his old friend, who was seated 
near his arm-chair. 

“ Have patience! ” responded the doctor in a low 
voice. “We must first effect a cure; — it will take 
a long time — but I hope we will succeed.” 

Aurette left the piano and rejoined them. While 
they talked she listened silently, thinking of her 
eternal grief, awakened every time she touched her 


« 


AURETTE. 


199 


fingers to the piano keys. Suddenly her eyes 
wandered in the direction of the table, where, seated 
near each other, Armand and Julia were looking 
over some old photographs. 

They were perfectly calm and were talking in an 
ordinary tone of voice, yet, before they knew it 
themselves, Aurette had a sudden, secret intuition 
that they loved each other. 

“ How old is Julia? ” she said to herself. “ Almost 
nineteen — it seems to me that she is still a child. My 
troubles have matured her early, however.” 

As she watched them her whole being rose in 
revolt. She wished to rise and cry out to her sister: 
“Love not, love not!” Then, the immense cloud, 
black and opaque, which had covered her sky, was 
suddenly rent, and she was blinded with a golden 
light, intense and penetrating. Before her, others 
had loved; after her, others would love; what was 
she in the midst of this ocean of souls, all of which 
had been burned by that sacred flame? 

While she loved was she not happy? Was this 
too much despair and anguish for one whole radiant 
year when she believed in love? 

What did it matter if she had been deceived? 
What did it matter if she had lost the man she 


200 


AURETTE. 


loved ? Love remained imperishable. And Aurette 
felt, with a great rapture in her soul, that she had, 
deceived herself, that she had not loved Raoul, the 
unworthy, but that she had loved love. 

She had crowned this commonplace creature with 
the halo, even with the sublimity of love; she had 
taken the idol for the god; the idol had fallen in 
the dust, but immortal love mourned above the ruins, 
upon a height where naught could reach it. Her 
whole heart, her will and strength soared upward in 
a sorrowful ecstacy to this adorable thing, this ideal 
apparition which would heal her wounds, and lift 
her up, like Pysche, to a glorious empyrean. 

Like a tree stricken by a thunderbolt while in 
full blossom, which afterward yields incomparably 
savory fruits, she blessed the divine arrow that had 
pierced her heart at the supreme moment of her 
happiness; she had held it in her hands, this swift, 
indiscernable happiness; she had received a visit 
from that supernatural guest, which transfigures all it 
touches; as empty as her future life appeared to 
her, her past life was full of exquisitely sad things; 
things to make one smile and weep. Raoul was 
only the pretext, the now lifeless relic of a delicious 
dream; she could shed tears of intense regret over 


AURETTE. 


201 


her vanished dream, but she no longer felt the pang 
of a despised love, a love blighted by the weakness 
and wickedness of another; love had visited her 
soul, and love could never die. 

While this splendid vision took form in her mind, 
Armand and Julia continued to chat in the rosy 
light of the great lamps. 

The brown head of the young physician and the 
blonde one of her sister, were in the same aureole 
of soft, warm radiance. 

A yearning tenderness, almost unknown to her 
now, awakened in her as she watched them, as in a 
kind of apotheosis. They might be happy together! 
They might never know doubt or misery! 

Recalled to herself cruelly, as if by the sharp 
sting of a bee, Aurette shuddered, and her heavenly 
vision fled, leaving behind it a regret like that which 
comes at awakening from a marvelous, unfinished 
dream. 

The next morning, on entering the drawing-room, 
she found upon the table a magnificent bouquet of 
flowers. Blue iris, as dainty as butterflies, tulips of 
oriental colors and bizarre contours, anemones of 
every shade, crimson roses, tube-roses as white and 


202 


AURETTE. 


queenly as lilies, and ferns as fragile as the richest 
lace; a rare blending of color and fragrance. 

“It is for my sister, is it not?” she said to the 
servant who handed her a note. She at once im- 
agined that it was a gift from Armand to Julia 

“ Excuse me, mademoiselle, but it is for you.” 

There was then, some one in the world who had 
thought to send her flowers! 

The doctor wrote her: 

“You are wrong to neglect flowers, my dear child, 
they are the only friends that return you a hundred 
fold for all you give to them. Try to accustom 
yourself to them, and if they awaken a little inter- 
est within you, I will discover it and send you 
others.” Your old friend, 

Doctor Rozel. 

Touched by this mark of affection, and agitated 
with another confused, indefinable sentiment, Aur- 
ette bent over the odorous blossoms and lifted them 
lightly. In their graceful frailty, each flower pre- 
served its distinct individuality, some drooping, 
others holding their heads erect, like human beings. 

“ Friends,” said Aurette, “yes, dear friends. It 
was not their fault if I bestowed them upon one 
who could not read their sweet message!” 


AURETTE. 


203 


She looked at the delicate hues and the infinite 
variety of form of these darlings of spring, these 
messengers of joys to come, and she asked herself 
how she could have dreaded their presence, on ac- 
count of the memories they awakened. 

“I was blind!” she exclaimed, “voluntarily and 
stupidly blind! O my sweet ones, you will console 
me, will you not?” 

For the first time since her affliction a beneficent 
dew fell from her eyes; two glistening tears slipped 
into the corolla of a purple iris and nestled in its 
velvety petals. She took the exquisite bouquet 
gently, tenderly, as if it were a little child she was 
caressing, and lifted it to her lips; and with passion- 
ate reverence she kissed the silken, perfumed blos- 
soms; those friends which die to-day to be born 
again to-morrow; those friends which nature has 
given us with so lavish a hand to charm the eye, to 
intoxicate us with their odors and their generous 
smiling beauty — sweet comforters for every moral 


woe. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Several days later, Aurette, who had been tak- 
ing a walk, followed by Bruno, was hastening to the 
Nest a little before dusk. The March sun had set 
in a rosy splendor, which foreboded a frosty night. 
The pathways were embalmed with violets, but the 
ground was frozen underfoot. On nearing the park 
gate, Bruno stopped suddenly with bristling hair, 
and began to bark furiously. 

Aurette was brave and besides, with this enor- 
mous dog, so near the house, she ran but little risk of 
serious danger. She approached the gate, after 
silencing the dog, and saw advancing toward her a 
woman with a shawl over her head which fell about 
her shoulders, and in her arms a heavy bundle. 

“What do you wish?” said Aurette a little 
roughly, “You must not stand about the gates in 
this way.” 

“Pardon me, miss, they told me you were kind- 
hearted — and I wish to speak to you.” 

The woman was standing so close to her that 
even in the fading light, Aurette could see her 


AURETTE. 


205 


plainly; she was young and still beautiful, in spite 
of the sunburn and the lines of care on her face. 
The bundle moved and Aurette saw that it was a 
child. Bruno who had been quieted, ventured his 
nose under the shawl and seemed satisfied. 

“What do you wish of me? Be quick, for it is 
late!” 

“Yes, miss; it is this. We lived at Port-Thibault, 
near here, on the Loire. My husband was a good 
workman, and I am a seamstress, at least I passed 
for a seamstress in the world, and we were very 
poor; then my husband became dissipated and 
deserted me and the little one — I have been work- 
ing hard all the time, but there were debts which 
my husband left, and I grew sick and so did the 
baby — he is well now, but I am still weak — Christ- 
mas I could not pay for the house, and they sold all 
that we had and turned us out. I am on my way to 
Angers, but it is still some distance, and I am not 
strong — I heard that you were good and I stopped. 
If you can do nothing for me, I will go on to 
Angers.” 

The young woman’s voice grew fainter at the 
last words, and lifting the bundle which had slipped 
from her arms, she made a movement to start. 


206 


AURETTE. 


“Your husband deserted you?” asked Aurette. 

“Yes, miss. I do not know why — ” 

“You loved him? ” 

“Ah! how I loved him! he was a god to me! I 
loved him only too well! ” 

“ How old are you?” 

“Twenty-five.” 

“How long were you married?” 

“Three years, but I was only happy one year. 
After my baby was born he seemed to care for me 
no longer.” 

“Deserted!” murmured Aurette. 

It was now almost dark; the air was chilly, and 
Bruno feeling it, began to push his nose against the 
gate demanding entrance. 

“Do you know anyone who would recommend 
you?” asked Aurette. 

The woman named two proprietors in the 
neighborhood, for whom she had worked. 

“Very well,” said Aurette, “come with me.” 

Walking a little ahead of the wretched woman, 
she went straight to the kitchen, where, after put- 
ting her in charge of the servants, she went to join 
her father and sister. 


AURETTE. 


207 


An open telegram lay upon the table; M. Leneil 
appeared absorbed in a late paper, and Julia with 
an air of consternation was vigorously plying her 
needle. Aurette took up the telegram and read: 
“A son named Jean. Affectionately , Charles A 

Charles had a son, named Jean for M. Leneil! 
Aurette felt her throat convulsed with a singular 
emotion. 

This message which had traversed so many lands 
and seas to bring them this great news seemed to 
her as mysterious as a dream. Bombay — one of 
the cities which one pictures white or golden, on the 
shores of some distant ocean, or at the mouth of a 
vast river. So far away, but so near to her heart! 

Aurette turned to her father. 

“Have you read this, papa?” she said with an 
infinite sweetness in her voice. 

He did not respond. 

“A son,” continued she, “a little Jean Leneil, 
like his grandfather.” 

Her father gave her a stern look. 

“It is the son of an ingrate,” said he. “God 
grant that he may not be like his mother! I shall 
never forget, my child, what you have suffered for her 
fault, and the fault of my unfortunate son. If you 


208 


AURETTE. 


hope to move me to pity, you are deceiving your- 
selves, both of you, my children. When I can ignore 
the affront to my family, I may be able to forgive. 
At present, I do not wish to hear of it, neither to- 
day nor later on.” 

Aurette instinctively recoiled. In this light, her 
father appeared to her as an impartial judge; without 
wrath, but without pity. She knew that the insult 
resented by her with so much vehemence had left a 
deeper, if a tardier, imprint on the soul of M. Leneil. 
She realized fully that to oppose him would be folly, 
for the present at least, so she kept silent, 

Julia continued to work with extraordinary activ- 
ity. Aurette divined that she also had endeavored to 
intercede for the little new-born, and that she heard 
him convicted of original sin. After a long time she 
said as if she had just that moment entered: 

“Papa, I had quite an adventure this evening: I 
met a poor woman and her child deserted by her 
husband. I took her to the kitchen and made them 
give her some food. It is very cold; will you per- 
mit her to spend the night in the pavilion? The 
child is so young. It is a boy, and so wretched.” 

Between this abandoned child and the disowned 
grandchild so far away, she could not refrain from 


AURETTE. 


209 


establishing a secret resemblance. M. Leneil felt 
it also; he looked at his daughter mournfully, and 
found in her eyes only benignity and pardon. 

“How old is he?” he asked in a broken voice. 

“About two years old.” 

“ Do as you like,” he replied, taking up his review 
again. 

Aurette walked behind him and stooping over, 
she kissed the hand which held the book. Before 
he could turn his head she had left the drawing- 
room; Julia had followed her noiselessly. 

“Aurette,” she said in a low voice, “papa will 
never forgive them. I saw it in his eyes when he 
opened the telegram.” 

“ Never! that is a long time,” said Aurette with a 
confident expression which astonished Julia. “We 
must hope! and above all, we must not renounce 
the little one who was born to be a very powerful 
auxiliary! Come with me.” 

While speaking, Aurette had taken a bunch of 
keys but little used, and after lighting a lantern and 
throwing a shawl over her head, followed by her 
sister, she started across the dark courtyard which 
adjoined the house. 


210 


AURETTE. 


The pavilion was a little detached building 
which served formerly to lodge some transient 
guest when the house was full. In days gone by, 
before M. Leneil had made additions to the Nest, it 
was here that the huntsmen had their meals served 
when they did not wish to take the trouble to make 
a toilet for dinner. There was one large apartment 
on the second floor which contained a bed and other 
furniture. 

Aurette took from a closet, two heavy linen 
sheets, and with Julia's assistance, spread them on 
the bed. A match started a fire in the chimney 
where the wood was already laid, and suddenly the 
joyous light danced on the walls, enlivening with a 
transitory brilliancy the sombre room with its 
ancient furniture. 

“They will not be cold this night/’ said Aurette, 
throwing another piece of wood upon the fire, “and 
to-morrow — to-morrow, we will see what we can do 
for them.” 

“ Is the child pretty?” asked Julia as she helped 
her sister arrange things, here and there. 

“I did not see it well,” replied Aurette, with an 
abstracted air. Suddenly she grasped her sister’s 
arm firmly: “ Deserted, Julia, don’t you understand! 


AURETTE. 


21 1 


Deserted cruelly, with her child, after marriage. 
Can’t you imagine what this woman has had to suf- 
fer? I know, and my heart bleeds for her.” 

Julia looked at her sister, without daring to 
speak. 

“I believed that I was the only one who was suf- 
fering; that such a thing had never happened to 
any one else. And here is a woman, a hundred 
times more unfortunate than I! And this child who 
has no longer a father. My God, what misery there 
is in the world! What griefs, what incurable wounds!” 

She gazed thoughtfully into the fire whose flick- 
ering lights and shadows danced upon the old- 
fashioned flowered curtains and the mouldings of 
the polished furniture; Julia listened, feeling that 
the door of her sister’s soul which had so long been 
sealed, was open at last. 

“This child,” said Aurette, “ has no longer a 
father, and little Jean, so far away, has no longer a 
grandfather! As soon as I read the telegram it 
flashed across me that God had sent these deserted 
ones for us to shelter, in memory, and for the love 
of the other little one whom we may perhaps never 
see, Charles’ little son!” 

14 


212 


AURETTE. 


“ Yes,” said Julia, quickly, “you are right.” 

Aurette looked at her as if she had been 
awakened from a dream. 

“Do you know, Julia, it seems to me that I have 
been gravely at fault. I have not known how to 
bear my troubles. I have been weak, selfish — ” 

“You!” cried Julia, “it is not true!” 

“ I have been egotistical,” continued Aurette, “I 
have not considered what effect my sorrows might 
have upon others, and I blame myself to-day that 
papa will not forgive Charles.” 

“No!” cried Julia, “you must not say such a 
thing! He would forgive him were it not that the 
Bertholons — ” 

Aurette silenced her with a look of entreaty. 

“Still, it is my fault. If I had treated their con- 
duct lightly, if I had remained unchanged, patient 
and courageous, papa would never have been so in- 
censed. I have done this wrong and how must I 
repair it?” 

Julia leaned her head against her sister’s shoulder 
and wept softly. 

“My whole life will not suffice for it,” continued 
Aurette, drawing the almost maternal arms closer 
around her, but without ceasing to follow the thread 


AURETTE. 


213 


of her thoughts. “ What must I do to gain papa 
so that the little Jean Leneil may be received into 
the arms of his family!” 

“ Aurette,” sobbed Julia, “we will do everything 
possible, but tell me that you will not be unhappy,^ 
that you will not reproach yourself.” 

“ I have spoiled two years of your life, however, 
but please God, I will repair it!” 

She gave her sister a fond kiss which testified to 
her soul’s awakening, then left the room which she 
had warmed with her sweet charity, and where 
charity in its turn had melted the ice about her 
heart. 

The poor woman had not deceived her in any- 
thing; the information obtained by Mile. Leneil the 
next day was of a most satisfactory nature. Before 
her husband’s desertion he had brought her to Port- 
Thibault, where she had neither relatives nor friends, 
or any one who was interested in her. What she 
wished was steady work to enable her to earn bread 
for herself and child. Aurette soon furnished her with 
it; from a kind of superstition she desired to retain 
at the Nest these wanderers, who had reached it at the 
same moment as the news of the birth of little 
Jean, and whom she almost regarded as messengers 


214 


AURETTE. 


from heaven. M. Leneil did not oppose it; whether 
he vaguely divined what was passing in his daugh- 
ter’s heart, or only that he was gratified at seeing 
her ardently interested in anything in the outside 
world. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Two years had passed since the Sacrament Sun- 
day when Aurette’s life had been so unexpectedly 
metamorphosed; upon the terrace, in the same spot 
where she had sat with her betrothed, Armand 
Deblay was sitting, looking across the landscape 
toward the Loire, enjoying the soft, balmy air of 
an evening in June. The doctor was chatting with 
M. Leneil; Julia sat near them in silence, her eyes 
fixed upon the foliage of the park trees, then in all 
their glory, gilded by the last rays of the sun. She 
seemed to be turning over in her mind some embar- 
rassing question, and at last, looking up at the young 
man, she said in a low voice: 

“So, you think this sufficient; to be a physician 
in town and make visits, for which you are well paid, 
and to be a director of a hospital and receive a 
handsome salary!” 

Armand did not appear greatly agitated at this 
censure. 

“ Pardon me, mademoiselle, but we also give 
gratuitous consultations.” 


216 


AURETTE. 


“Yes, I know,” said Julia, with impatience, “a 
beautiful affair! ” 

“What must a physician do then to win the 
approval of heaven? ” 

“Merit it! He should go out into the country 
to give free consultations, to see what is happening 
there, to see the sick whom ignorance and supersti- 
tion have made more so. To prevent them from 
running to quacks who make them commit follies 
and injure themselves so that they may come back 
to them to cure them.” 

“The quacks would fall upon us bodily, mad- 
emoiselle, and our country confreres would accuse 
us of taking the bread from their mouths.” 

“In giving gratuitous consultations?” 

“Yes, since it would prevent them from making 
paying visits.” 

Julia turned away with an air of comical humor. 
At this moment a group of children crossed the end 
of the lawn; they were walking along gravely, the 
smaller ones in the middle, holding the others by 
the hand. 

“What little troop is that,” asked M. Rozel. 

“ They are Aurette’s urchins,” replied M. Leneil, 
“she has a half dozen like them to come and walk in 


AURETTE. 217 

the garden Sunday, when they have been good dur- 
ing the week.” 

“ Where do you get your recruits? ” said the doc- 
tor to Aurette, who was watching the children with 
a dreamy smile. 

“ One is the child of the ironer who does you 
those beautiful shirts,” she replied; “he is the 
smallest, the Benjamin, and at the same time the 
fonnder of the institution. Two of them are the 
coachman’s, one of the cook’s, and two others of the 
the gardener’s.” 

“Great heavens! how have you caused to spring 
up from the earth, as it were, so numerous a progeny 
to people, who to my knowledge possess none! ” said 
the doctor greatly amused. 

“They have recalled the banished,” responded' 
Aurette, throwing a side glance at her father. 
“These good folks conceal their children as they 
would a crime, for fear of interfering with their sit- 
uations; but when little Charles — ” 

“Who?” said M. Rozel quickly. 

“Charles is the son of the ironer; when he had 
been installed at the pavilion at his mother’s petti- 
coats, there was no longer a reason for concealing 
the other little fellows; they soon appeared, one by 


2lS 


AURETTE. 


one, poor, bashful creatures; it was very droll, I 
assure you.” 

“ I can imagine so. But if it is not too inquisitive, 
I would like to ask what you do with this little 
band? ” 

“ They go to school; on holidays I tell them stories, 
and then they walk together decorously, as you see, 
in the garden. Yesterday little Charles started to 
pluck a flower and every hand was raised to prevent 
him. They are well trained, I assure you.” 

“And what will you do with them after awhile?” 

“What will please God and their parents — make 
good men and women of them, if it is possible.” 

“ Ahd this amuses you?” 

A beautiful look from Aurette answered the 
question better than words. 

The doctor and M. Leneil followed the little 
band with their eyes, as they retired in good order, 
one after another. The same thought had crossed 
fheir minds, for the father turned his head to avoid 
the look of his old friend. 

Armand and Julia had resumed their quarrel; 
Bruno, who had vainly been from one to the other, 
presenting his friendly head as a peace offering, 
ended by lying down between them, lengthwise, in 


AURETTE. 


219 


order to separate them should the dispute grow 
serious, doubtless. 

“ I do not understand how one can reconcile one’s 
self to charging for doing so little,” said Julia, 
throwing away a sprig of grass which she had been 
rolling around her finger. 

“So little!” replied Armand, “Do visits at night 
count for nothing? When one loves his sleep, is 
there no merit in tearing one’s self from bed, in 
winter, especially?” 

Julia, suddenly changing her humor, looked at 
him almost with pity, but her sarcasm very soon 
reappeared. 

“There is, when one loves his sleep!” said she. 
“But really, are you a sluggard?” 

“ I confess it! But mademoiselle, is it possible 
that you have never had a desire to sleep?” 

“I? I could sleep till noon! Not when anyone 
needs me however.” 

Aurette’s eyes looking beyond her father and 
the doctor, sought Julia’s with an expression of ten- 
der recognizance. Could she ever forget the night 
when her sister watched over her? How long ago, 
already in the past, was that sorrowful epoch! In 
remembering it, she was almost ashamed of having 


220 


AURETTE. 


suffered so much, and so short a time previous. 
Was she cured then? 

The sky had become an undecided color, and 
the stars like golden spangles seemed to spring 
from the firmament; Aurette recalled how many 
timestheir rays had pierced her bleeding heart. No, 
she was not entirely cured since an inexpressible 
melancholy always oppressed her at twilight. She 
rose gently and, unobserved, descended to the gar- 
den which was redolent with the fragrance of 
heliotrope. Armand and Julia continued their 
discussion. 

“ I see very well, mademoiselle, that you are 
determined to censure the poor town doctors, but, to 
be entirely candid, I would like to know what you 
would approve.” 

‘‘Would approve? Ah! that is not difficult, and 
I will tell you. When a physician earns money 
beyond his own needs, when he has a good practice, 
is already known, or even celebrated, and when his 
name inspires confidence, he should found a 
dispensary — ” 

“At his own home, mademoiselle?” 

“Yes; he should take a house large enough for 
that; a dispensary for sick children, for example; 


AURETTE. 


221 


for children, hereafter! It is better to keep them 
from dying — ” 

“Than adults, mademoiselle? ” 

“Yes,” replied Julia imperturbably, “because 
there are wicked people among adults, and children 
are, as yet, good.” 

“Will you permit me to note the word yet, which 
does not indicate an absolute confidence in the 
excellence of human nature?’ 

“ I will permit you to note it, sir, because it is use- 
less to endeavor to evade you; you wish to escape 
my reasoning.” 

“ Heaven defend me! Besides I could not if I 
would.” 

They had instinctively lowered their voices, 
without perceiving it. Doctor Rozel and his friend 
had embarked on some great social question and 
were oblivious to all but themselves. Aurette was 
walking slowly at some distance from them, and 
the silhouette of her elegant form was outlined on 
the fine, gray mist which softened the color of the 
foliage. 

“ Then you confess I am right, and that it is 
your duty to found a dispensary?” 


222 


AURETTE. 


Armand did not respond; he looked at her so 
intently that she grew embarrassed. 

“For the little ones, you know, for the little ones 
who suffer. Their mothers are ignorant, often fool- 
ish, nearly always poor! They must be helped. It 
would do so much good.” 

Julia felt her heart beating more rapidly than 
there was any occasion for it; in the soft, sweet 
twilight she could see nothing but Armand’s two 
dark eyes fixed upon her violet ones, which she 
lowered in vain. She could feel those eyes upon 
her own, through her drooping eyelids. 

“Julia,” said he in a low voice, but which she 
heard as if it were the sound of a clarion, “ I can do 
nothing alone toward organizing the dispensary 
which you wish — but if you will help me — ” 

“I?” exclaimed Julia trying to laugh, but not 
succeeding. 

“Yes, you. A doctor is awkward about such 
matters; all he can do is to lend the aid of his sci- 
ence, if he has any — but a doctor’s wife — ” 

Julia rose abruptly. Armand detained her by a 
fold of her dress which he grasped lightly, then 
relinquished immediately; as lightly as it was, she 
felt it, and remained standing, immovable. 


AURETTE. 


223 


“The wife of a doctor can do all that she wishes 
for the welfare of sick children, and the welfare of 
the doctor himself; on his return home, how happy 
it would make him to know that his wife awaited 
him!” 

“Egotist!” murmured Julia with a faint smile. 

“Yes, I admit it. But it is the duty of the good 
to correct evil. If you will correct me I will be 
very docile, indeed I will. And I know a little hotel 
in a beautiful street — ” 

“New?” demanded Julia, almost aggressively. 

“ No, mademoiselle, old. I said a beautiful old 
street, and a little old hotel, with two or three large 
apartments below, which would be exactly the affair 
you wish; there is even a wonderful kitchen at the 
end of the last hall! A kitchen with a quaint stove; 
one would say that it was made expressly to please 
you, for there is another room at the opposite end 
of the building for the waitress. It was evidently 
constructed by Providence himself for sick children, 
for there, one can prepare remedies, poultices — ” 

“And soups?” added Julia quickly. 

“And soups, certainly, and little broths, and 
warm milk, and all kinds of good things. But this 
is the business of the doctor’s wife — ” 


224 


AURETTE. 


“ Hush, my sister is coming!” said Julia brusquely, 
almost in a whisper. “ Before we have the right to 
speak of little broths and such things, she must be 
able to be left here alone, with papa; it is neces- 
sary — ” 

She stopped speaking. Aurette passed behind 
them on her way to the drawing-room, and ere long 
the grand piano under her hands found its soul 
again; and as she had played it two years before, 
she began the Songs Without Words, by Mendels- 
sohn, which she had never played since that time. 

At first her fingers wandered tremulously over 
the half-forgotten notes, then her touch grew firmer 
and the exquisite melody floated heavenward like a 
prayer. 

“Oh!” whispered Julia, “I am sure she is weep- 
ing!’ 

The piano was not weeping, however; the music 
increased in an intensity of burning ardor; but it 
was not sorrowful; as in other days, Aurette offered 
up a supplication for all earthly miseries, but she no 
longer felt her own. 

M. Leneil had ceased talking; he remembered 
that evening, and like Julia, he feared that Aurette 
might be suffering. The last note died away in the 


AURETTE. 


225 


immobile air; no one dared to speak. The piano 
resounded again; this time it was a simple strain of 
extreme naivete; Schubert's Tu es le repos; never 
has any one so well expressed the peace of a soul. 

Leaving the piano, Aurette rejoined the little 
group of listeners. There was still enough light in 
the sky for them to see distinctly her perfectly calm 
and beautiful face. 

“Are you cold, papa?” she said in her sweet, 
musical voice, resting her hand upon her father’s 
shoulder. 

Instead of answering her he drew her to him 
and embraced her. There was no trace of tears on 
Aurette’s cheeks. Although still susceptible to 
melancholy, she had passed the period of tempests, 
and henceforth would soar above all memories. 

When the uncle and nephew left the Nest, Ar- 
mand was absolutely certain of winning Julia, though 
she had not yet given an actual consent. After say- 
ing good-night to M. Leneil she went to her sister’s 
room where they often remained talking together 
till a late hour. 

She would have been willing to wait for a favor- 
able moment in which to recount to her what had 
happened; she had even ingeniously planned to 


226 


AURETTE. 


broach the subject after skillful circumlocution, but 
all this strategy crumbled to pieces before Aurette’s 
grave eyes. 

“ My dear sister,” she cried, “ what will you think 
of me? He has asked me to be his wife and I have 
not refused him!” 

Aurette said nothing; her beautiful golden brown 
eyes, soft and velvety like the coreopsis in the 
Autumn gardens, no longer saw her sister, they were 
seeking afar off in the vague night, the ghost of 
bygone days when she also had not refused to be 
the wife of another man. 

How long ago was it? It was like a dream, a 
bad dream. Julia became alarmed. 

“Aurette,” she said, “we will wait a very long 
time, as long as you wish. I have no desire to leave 
you, and I told him — ” 

“ Do you love him?” asked her sister in a slow, 
abstracted manner. 

“ I — yes, certainly I love him!” responded Julia, 
whose delicate face was as rosy as the flush of 
dawn. “And he loves me; oh, yes, I am sure he 
loves me!” 

Aurette sat there silent and motionless; Julia 
felt a great pity for her, and reproached herself 


AURETTE. 


227 


bitterly for having so abruptly awakened so many 
sad memories in a soul but lately healed. 

“Aurette,” said she with an humble, touching 
grace, “ forgive me for being so foolish; I am only 
an awkward little girl, but I love you, I love you 
deeply, you know it. Tell me you are not angry 
with me, please. Scold me even, if you wish, but 
say something, speak to me.” 

“Scold you?” said Aurette with infinite sweet- 
ness, “ you?” 

She began mechanically to search in her pocket 
for a little bunch of keys which seldom left her, and 
going to a large chest of drawers of ancient mosaic 
work, which fitted one whole panel of the wall, she 
knelt before it and carefully opened the bottom 
drawer. Julia, without understanding, watched her 
as she drew from it a long, flat box. Aurette then 
rose and placed the box upon a table, and untied 
the knots of the white cords which were around it; 
her movements were all slow, as if she were per- 
forming an act of piety. 

The knots untied, she lifted the pasteboard cover, 
removed the soft paper wrappings, and the light of 
the lamp fell upon a rich material, as white and 

15 


228 


AURETTE. 


airy as silver tissue. Aurette unfolded it and re- 
vealed the shimmering silken stuff which was to 
have been her bridal robe. 

45 How foolish!” she murmured, “and how ridic- 
ulous sorrow sometimes makes one. I imagined 
that I would never look at it again, and I have often 
said to myself that it would be my shroud.” 

She gathered up a handful of the rich brocade 
and spread it over the carpet in heavy, magnificent 
folds, then she threw one 'end of it over Julia’s 
shoulder, who stood there draped like an antique 
statue. 

“This shall be your wedding dress, dearest, and 
may it bring you happiness.” 

Their eyes met, their arms entwined, with the 
superb brocade falling around them like a graceful 
scarf. 

Julia, who was very practical, took the end of 
the silk and began to fold it carefully to return it to 
the box. 

“ He is a good boy,” said she, all the while appar- 
ently absorbed in her work. 44 I hardly think papa 
will oppose it; or the doctor, for if he was not will- 
ing I suppose he would not have brought him here 
so often.” 


AURETTE. 


229 


“ Without a doubt,” replied Aurette, “and for 
my part, I can only rejoice at it, for he seems to me 
good, energetic and intelligent.” 

“Yes, and he is going to found a dispensary,” 
said Julia, “ and he says there is even a kitchen, so 
that we may have soup — ” 

She laughed merrily, and her eyes glistened with 
happy tears. 

“ But understand,” she added, “nothing is settled; 
only, I have told him we would think of it when — 
after awhile, later on, not immediately, at any rate.” 

“Why not immediately?” asked Aurette gently. 

“Immediately? oh no! It is necessary that — ’ 

“That what?” 

“That you — that papa — oh, I hardly know, my- 
self! That Charles should have returned.” 

“ Not at all! You must marry as soon as pos- 
sible without waiting for anything! you see, Julia, 
when two people are well acquainted, long engage- 
ments profit nothing, and when one is not sure of 
one’s self, they are no better sometimes.” 

Aurette’s voice trembled slightly; Julia put her 
arms around her caressingly. 

“ I will never have the courage to leave you and 




230 


AURETTE. 


papa here alone, Aurette, little mother,” she mur- 
mured fondly. 

“ Don’t you think we will have sufficient strength 
to do without you?” said Aurette, smiling. 

“Don’t jest,” said Julia, reproachfully, “ I am in 
earnest, and if you do not take it seriously — ” 

“ Fwas never more serious in my life, dearest. 
You have been an incomparable sister, I know.” 

“ Oh!” 

“Incomparable,” insisted Aurette “as young as 
you are; you have helped me in my trouble as no 
one else could have done. It is on this account that 
the thought of seeing you happy is to me so sweet 
and comforting. Do not fear to leave me with papa, 
we will get along beautifully together, and your 
happiness will be to us a source of perpetual joy.” 

“It will be so droll!” said Julia with an air of 
deep meditation. 

“What, dearie?” 

“To be the wife of Doctor Deblay. Will there 
be a brass plate on the door with Physician above it? 
No, when one is well known, this is not necessary.” 

She reflected a moment then added mischievously: 
“ But there will be a large plate with this inscrip- 
tion: ‘ Dispensary for sick children.’ This will be 


AURETTE. 


231 


the most beautiful gift that he could place among 
my wedding presents. I would not give it for all 
the jewels in the world. And you and I will make 
little jackets and skirts, such warm ones! And the 
shoes, we will not be able to make them of course, 
but Doctor Deblay will furnish them!” 

“Go to bed,” exclaimed Aurette, giving*her a 
gentle push toward her room, “ you must sleep.” 

“Sleep! no, indeed! I am too happy for that! I 
am going to lie awake and dream of the dispensary, 
and the doctor — and my wedding dress. O Aurette!” 

She turned and threw her arms around her sis- 
ter’s neck, with a delicious movement of supplegrace, 
then she went to her own room which was peopled 
with golden visions. 


CHAPTER XV. 


One warm, sweet morning in September, an An- 
gerin September, as clear as a summer day, but more 
delicately veiled in a blue, transparent mist, Julia, 
before arraying herself in her bridal dress, ran to the 
park and garden, once more to see each dear, familiar 
corner of the Nest. 

Bruno followed her, step by step, slackening his 
pace when she lingered, and bounding by her side 
when she hastened onward. He knew, the good 
dog, that she was going away; the peculiar intuition 
of his species revealed to him that she was about to 
leave the old Nest, and he showed his affection for 
her in a thousand different ways. From time to time 
she patted him on the head affectionately, and con- 
tinued her pilgrimage. 

Adieu to the lonely terrace on the border of the 
ravine where Aurette had wept bitterly in the past; 
adieu to the walks of the park where Sidonie had 
plotted her treason; adieu to the shady circle around 
the old plane-tree where the children had all played, 
and where her father loved to rest! Before going 


AURETTE 


233 


to the conservatory, Julia turned to look across the 
landscape which was enveloped in a white, airy 
vapor; soon she would be clothed in her white bridal 
veil. 

She found Aurette in the conservatory in her 
morning robe; upon a table before her there was a 
bouquet of exquisite flowers, truly a poem of pure 
love, resting in the crystal vase. 

“This is for you,” said Aurette with a fond smile. 
“It is to be sent to the little old hotel in the little 
old street near the cathedral, where you will find it 
this evening, and it will take with it the benediction 
of your little mother.” 

Julia bent over the golden Japan lilies, the tube- 
roses, delicate asphodels, poppies, and Marvel of 
Peru with its intoxicating odors, and in the perfume 
of these lovely blossoms she breathed the beauty 
and nobility of Aurette’s soul. 

“My heart fails me, Aurette,” said she, pressing 
close to her. 

But Aurette was brave; she embraced her and 
pushed her gently from her arms. 

“Your happiness is over yonder in the little old 
hotel,” she said smilingly, “and we will be happy in 
your joy.” 


234 


AURETTE. 


“If only Charles were here!” sighed Julia, gaz- 
ing at the superb diamond of her ring, the gift of 
her brother. “Tell me, dear, do you think he will 
ever return? ” 

“Some day,” replied her sister; “have patience.” 

“ Little Jean is already six months old, and we 
have not seen him; he will grow up without know- 
ing us. But it is not his fault.” 

“Patience!” repeated Aurette. 

She hoped that Julia’s children might open the 
door to the little exile, but she would not say it, 
and so she led her gently toward the Nest. 

In a cloud of tulle and sheeny silk which rustled 
as she walked along, Julia entered the carriage with 
the others; the horses soon carried them to the 
cathedral where the bells were ringing triumphantly. 
As in a dream she stepped upon the crimson carpet 
which led to the altar, under a shower of harmony 
from the thundering organs. In a few moments 
she was married. Her eyes sought for Aurette and 
found her. 

How beautiful her sister looked! so slender and 
noble in her silver-gray silk. She refused to wear 
a more youthful costume, but for this day was 


AURETTE. 235 

attired as a young mother — a day so unique in her 
life. 

In the evening the young couple found Aurette’s 
bouquet on the centre table in the vast drawing- 
room of their new home. The perfume of myrtle 
and lilies floated upward to the lofty, sculptured 
ceiling and evoked sweet thoughts of the lovely 
donor in the hearts of those who loved her. 

Aurette and her father had returned alone to 
the Nest, grave but not sad. With the full assurance 
of Julia’s happiness, there mingled another emotion, 
not so lofty, but very consoling; all their friends 
had been present to witness the ceremony; the 
sympathy and esteem of the whole town had fol- 
lowed the youthful pair to the altar. Who thought 
of Sidonie? Who remembered that she had ever 
existed? 

Aurette knelt beside her father with clasped 
hands, and said to him in a low voice: 

“Papa, for Julia’s sake, recall your son.” 

M. Leneil took within his own the two out- 
stretched hands. 

“My child,” he said, “do not undo the repara- 
tory work of time; this woman is forgotten; do not 


236 


AURETTE. 


ask for her return; she will bring us only shame 
and sorrow.” 

Aurette bent her head; her father was right, she 
knew it. She kissed his pale cheeks, and going to 
the piano, played him all of his favorite airs, in 
order to lull him into a sweet and restful sleep. 

Then, when he was asleep, she opened the win- 
dow and gazed at the stars. 

They did not make her weep now. They were 
the faithful friends who watched her as she silently 
accomplished her mission of peace and benedic- 
tions. Aurette was happy, yes, happy in the joy of 
others, and above all, in that which she had be- 
stowed upon them.* Troubles, vigils and anguish 
had finished within her the work of restoration; the 
wound in her soul was healed; at most, she might 
suffer again if some unforseen circumstances brought 
her face to face with the man she had so tenderly, 
so passionately, so vainly loved! They were living 
in different worlds at present, how could she meet 
him? 

She thought of what she would have suffered 
had she realized her dream and married Raoul Ber- 
tholon, when she should have discovered the pov- 
erty of his heart and the weakness of his intellect; 


AURETTE. 


237 


in a great outburst of recognition, she blessed the 
destiny which had spared her that grief and humili- 
ation. Ah! it was a hundred times better to live a 
life useful to others, a life of self renunciation, than 
that of an old woman crouching amid ruins, crushed 
and bruised each moment by the debris falling upon 
her bleeding heart. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


The following winter, Aurette and her father, as 
well as the young Deblay household, subscribed to 
the Bordier concerts, in order to hear some fine in- 
strumental music, brilliantly executed. 

All those who take an interest in symphony 
music, know that Angers is the only town in France 
where for five years a society has been sustained, 
which, on every Sunday, for six months of the year, 
renders a new programme of the works of the de- 
ceased masters, and those of the new school which 
are noticeably good. 

One Sunday in December, Aurette, who was a 
little late in visiting a sick friend, requested her 
father not to wait for her, but to go to the concert 
without her, where she would soon join him. 

M. Leneil, who was a great admirer of the Sep - 
tieme Symphonie which would open the programme, 
readily assented, and upon arriving, sent the car- 
riage back promptly for his daughter. 

Aurette stepped from the coupe before the door 
of the opera house; the concert had begun, a fine 


AURETTE. 


239 


drizzling rain had chased away the snowflakes; 
only a vender of programmes ventured outside the 
door. Two or three people had taken refuge under 
the peristyle; Mile. Leneil, after giving some direc- 
tions to the coachman, turned toward the entrance, 
and was confronted by a man, who stood before her 
in an attitude of respect, even of humiliation. 

Without looking at him, Aurette was about to 
take from her purse a piece of money, when she 
heard a voice, which sounded to her like the echo 
of a voice loved in the past. 

“Mademoiselle,” said the poor fellow, in a 
shamefaced manner. 

Very poor in fact, and very miserable, in spite of 
his wife’s millions. It was Raoul Bertholon. 

‘‘Mademoiselle,” said he, “permit me to escort 
you to the door.” 

Aurette raised her head; under her veil, the 
fugitive blushes of other days had already two or 
three times glowed, then paled, upon her cheeks. 
She looked at her old lover, and notwithstanding 
the control which she had over herself, her soul was 
moved with pity. 

He! so changed, so aged, so to speak! His 
clothes were new, but hung loosely on his thin form; 


240 


AURETTE. 


his eyes had a troubled expression; his face was 
flushed; a whole existence of wrangling, quarrels, 
and recriminations could be read in this weary coun- 
tenance. 

“So then,” thought Mile. Leneil, “this is what 
his wife and mother have made of him!” 

She bowed to him and took a step forward; 
he stopped her with an imploring gesture, designa- 
ting the deserted streets, and the complete solitude 
which the rain and Sunday made around them. 

“ Mademoiselle, I only wish to say a word to you, 
I entreat you to listen. I come here every Sunday 
to meet you — I pray you — ” 

She stood still, agitated at the sight of him thus 
imploring her; he, who had formerly accepted her 
love as a god accepts the incense of the faithful. 

“ I have sought for an opportunity,” said he with 
his hat still in his hand, “ to beg you to forgive me.” 

She made a movement of haughty dignity which 
he had feared, and which precipitated his words. 

“ I have acted uripardonably, unworthily, I know. 
I do not deserve your pity; but if you knew how I 
regret it — (he lowered his voice still more) and how 
I have been punished!” 


AURETTE. 


241 


She felt that he spoke the truth, and her heart 
melted with compassion for this man who had suf- 
fered so much. 

“ I am punished, you do not dream to what ex- 
tent, and I will not tell you — I implore you to say 
that you forgive me! I can perhaps then more 
patiently endure the life to which I have so miser- 
ably doomed myself!” 

“If you desire it, sir,” responded Aurette, “ I 
can tell you that you have been forgiven for a very 
long time.” 

The gentleness of her voice atoned for the cool- 
ness of the words. There was no longer a spark of 
love in her heart, it was only a great pity. She 
started toward the peristyle, he followed her. 

“Do you despise me?” said he in a broken voice, 
with an expression of indescribable anguish. 

“No. I pity you. Adieu.” 

She disappeared under the doorway. He re- 
mained immovable for a moment, bare-headed, 
looking at the place where she had stood; then put- 
ting on his hat he walked slowly away in the rain 
and sleet, along the deserted quay. 

The first part of the symphonie en la ended as 
Aurette entered. Hardly was she seated when that 


242 


AURETTE. 


exquisite plaint which is called the Allegretto, began. 
As the violins wailed forth their melodious lamen- 
tations, she seemed to follow in her fancy the funeral 
train of her love, so long dead; she regretted it as 
she would some souvenir, some very ancient thing 
v/hich belonged to another century; she felt for it 
the same melancholy which is inspired by the sor- 
rows of others in a book, read once, then read again 
by chance, after many years. It was no longer 
grief, nor even melancholy, it was a transient gloom, 
like a cloud which passes across the sun on a morn- 
ing in September, and hangs for a moment over the 
golden woods 

The Allegretto was finished and the applause 
deafening. Aurette looked around her. At her 
right was her father; at her left, Julia, with Armand. 
She felt herself warm up in this nest padded with 
tenderness. The cloth of her father’s cloak and the 
velvet of Julia’s mantle gave her a sensation of 
-eweet, familiar things which were dear to her. A 
whispered word from Julia augmented still more 
that feeling of comfort, when suddenly, by contrast, 
her thoughts followed the poor man who was wan- 
dering in the cold, drizzling rain toward an inhos- 
pitable fireside, where he would never find peace or 


AURETTE. 


243 


joy. Aurette sighed, and an involuntary shiver 
which shook her shoulders at the thought of the icy 
air without, accompanied these reflections. 

“Are you cold?” asked Julia. “What horrible 
weather! ” 

“Horrible, really,” responded Mile. Leneil, “yet 
it is comfortable here.” 


16 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Sidonie’s room was carpeted entirely with China 
mats; white mats, very fine and silken, which one 
seldom sees in Europe. The windows were draped 
with curtains of thin, white muslin; everything 
was white and fresh to the eye, although the heat 
was heavy and stifling. 

Sidonie lay upon a low bed, panting with fever; 
Charles sat very close to her, watching her with 
deep compassion as she struggled against the im- 
placable enemy. 

“Do not look at me!” she cried with impatience, 
opening her eyes after a short sleep. “You must 
not look at me as if you were trying to find out if I 
am going to die! ” 

“Sidonie!” exclaimed Charles broken-heartedly. 

“ It is all right, for I am going to die; ah, well, 
just so I die in peace!” 

She turned to him almost angrily; as weak as 
she was, her aggressive nature had not lost its hold 
on her. 

“ Listen, Charles,” said she. 


AURETTE. 


245 


Her voice was but a whisper; he leaned over her 
to hear it, and she grasped with both hands the 
lapels of his linen coat, and held them with all the 
energy she had left. 

“Listen. , After I am dead, you must return to 
France. There is no use in your remaining here to 
wear yourself out. Your father will pardon you. 
Do not wait to write to ask his permission. Go at 
once with the little one. Oh, you will be at rest 
then! When I am dead you will be welcome. I 
was the mar-joy.” 

Almost out of breath, she spoke in short, nervous 
sentences; he wished to respond, to defend himself 
and the others, but she would not permit him; still 
clutching feebly at his coat, she continued: 

“After all, you know, it is but natural; I would 
not have believed that your father would have held 
out so long — it is the fault of that idiot — Bertholon, 
I see; that put the finishing touch to our difficulties.” 

She brusquely relinquished the lapels of his 
coat; her husband bent over her to kiss her burn- 
ing forehead, but she repulsed him impatiently. 

“ Do not kiss me, it might do you harm. Tell 
Aurette that I give the little one to her; I am sure 
she will be touched by it.” 


246 


AURETTE. 


The wraith of her old ironical smile flitted across 
Sidonie’s lips, then vanished. 

“After all, you know, she will rear him more 
after your heart than I ever could have been able to 
do. And I — I am so tired — ah, I really need to 
rest — this heat makes me so drowsy.” 

Her husband took a large fan and waved it 
gently to give her a little air. 

“No,” she said wearily, “that makes it worse. 
Ah me, how sweet it was at the Nest, on summer 
evenings, when the wind blew from the Loire — it 
was so cool — ” 

She hushed and closed her eyes; Charles thought 
she was asleep, but in a moment she opened them 
again. 

“ You are almost as sick, as I am,” said she, look- 
ing at his worn, thin face and gray hair. “ My poor 
Charles, it is all my fault. I have brought you noth- 
ing but misery!” 

“ It is the climate,” said Charles to calm her. 

“ No> it is I,” she replied obstinately. “ Without 
me, you would not have stayed here more than a 
year. But you are young; you will marry again.” 

“ Sidonie, I implore you to hush!” said the un- 
happy man, clasping his hands. 


AURETTE. 


.247 


She turned away with an air of lassitude. 

“But that will make no difference,” she said 
slowly, “when I am dead, how can it hurt me? — ■ 
Kiss me, Charles; I ask you to do it this time.” 

He stooped over and kissed her brow and eye- 
lids; lightly, so as not to catch the dreaded fever; 
tenderly, because he had loved her passionately, 
foolishly. 

“Tell Aurette that it was very wrong of me not 
to take her advice,” continued Sidonie. “ She was 
right; your father was right. You must go as soon 
as — immediately after — And then, the little one — « 
you must speak to him sometimes of me, so that he 
may not forget me. I have not been good in my 
life, but it seems to me that I have not been a bad 
mother to him.” 

“Do you wish to see him?” asked Charles, after 
a slight hesitation. 

“No. Leave him on the mountain in the fresh 
air. It would make him ill to come here in this 
heat — and then, you have not time — he would arrive 
too late. So what good would it do?” 

An expression of bitter sadness passed over 
Sidonie’s face at the memory of her little boy. 


248 


AURETTE. 


“ It is for the best,” she said, “ you could never 
have been happy in this way, my poor Charles. I 
did wrong, but I did not think it would end so badly; 
you must not — you must not think unkindly of me 
for it.” 

She closed her eyes and fell into a troubled 
sleep, while Charles bowed down with grief, re- 
viewed the past, without finding anything there but 
the fleeting, deceptive illusions which he had mis- 
taken for happiness. 

Two days afterward, she died. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


M. Leneil, seated beneath the great plane-tree 
was lost in meditation. The summer day was pecu- 
liarly beautiful, and the glowing five o’clock sun 
flooded with golden lights the hedge of yoke-elms 
and the sloping lawns. The gardener approached 
holding in his hand something small and glittering. 

“ See what I found this morning, sir,” said he, 
“it must be that I never raked deep- enough before 
to-day.” 

M. Leneil held out his hand, then started with 
surprise. 

“This!” said he, “after so many years!” 

Aurette put aside her work to examine the ob- 
ject of so much comment. 

“Oh! it is Charles’ little spoon!” she exclaimed. 
“It has been twenty years since it was lost! The 
nurse mislaid it while feeding Julia, under this tree. 
To think of it having been found, to-day of all 
others!” 

“To-day!” repeated M. Leneil. 


250 


AURETTE. 


“After twenty years, papa; is it not astonishing? 
When they had searched for it so often?” 

The father had aged somewhat, but his white 
hair and beard gave to his face an expression of 
great sweetness, and the sharp, resolute glance of 
other days had almost disappeared from his eyes. 

“Twenty years,” said he, “how old are you then, 
Aurette?” 

“Twenty-eight, papa,” she responded gaily, “and 
I enjoy life I assure you! ” 

“You have not, however, had a cheerful look for 
some time. You are concealing something from 
me; I am sure of it.” 

“A surprise, papa, I have planned — but we will 
speak of it directly, if you wish. I see Julia at the 
end of the lawn.” 

Julia, who was on the eve of maternity, advanced 
slowly; she was even more beautiful than three 
years before. The two sisters embraced each other, 
and Mme. Deblay sat down near her father, while 
Aurette slipped away. 

“What is this I see?” she exclaimed. “Is it 
possible! The famous lost spoon! I always believed 
that it was a legend, a story invented to make us 
bring back to the house our spoons when we had 


AURETTE. 25I 

little dinners out of doors. It really exists then, 
Charles’ spoon; it was not a myth?” 

M. Leneil bowed his head in response. 

This little piece of tarnished silver evoked in 
him memories which he believed had been effaced 
by age and cares. He could see again his first-born 
in his cradle near the proud, contented young 
mother; the teaspoon of finely carved silver was a 
gift from the amiable god-mother, who had died 
early and was so long regretted. How often he 
had amused himself watching the plump, rosy babe 
as it ate, laughing at him all the while! Under 
this plane-tree, less umbrageous then, he had seen 
for so many summers, the sunbeams creeping through 
the foliage to fall upon the faces of his little chil- 
dren, as one by one, being called to the banquet of 
life, they endeavored to feed themselves as best 
they could, with the little old spoon, now so 
battered. 

“When‘one remembers we have all been babies!” 

Julia’s voice so much resembled her mother’s 
that M. Leneil started and turned toward her. 

“You wear nothing but black now,” said he 
scrutinizing her dress. “It has been fully three 
months since I have seen a bright colored dress.” 


252 


AURETTE. 


“It is the fashion,” answered Julia, “and papa, 
you forget my gray dresses.” 

M. Leneil also remembered that his eldest 
daughter had also affected sombre colors for some 
time. A vague suspicion of the truth flashed across 
his mind, but he did not wish to give it importance, 
so he closed his eyes as was his habit when he 
desired to take a nap in his chair. 

He opened them again in a few moments and 
leaned forward abruptly, with his hands on the arms 
of his chair as if about to rise, and his eyes fixed 
upon some object in the direction of the Nest. 

The little lad dressed in gray with a black sash, 
who was coming toward him across the lawn, was it 
Charles; Charles at the age of three, trotting along 
on his little bare legs? No! it must be one of 
Aurette’s urchins. But they had all grown so much 
that none of them was so small, and none of them 
had the elegance of carriage and grace of movement 
which characterized a child of gentle birth. 

The little fellow walked straight to him, and 
M. Leneil, agitated beyond what he believed possi- 
ble, watched him, hardly daring to breathe. Julia 
leaned forward so as to observe her father, and if 



“ GRANDFATHER ! ” 


Page 253. 





' 





















AURETTE. 253 

he had turned his head he would have seen his son- 
in-law just behind him, ready to assist him if it was 
necessary. 

“This little boy,” said M. Leneil, shading his 
eyes with his hand, “is he a new charge of 
Aurette’s? ” 

The child was now only a few steps from him; 
somewhat abashed, he hesitated at first, then in a 
silvery voice which resounded musically in the 
silence of the garden, he said: 

“ Grandfather! ” 

M. Leneil started to rise, but Armand had antic- 
ipated him, and in an instant the child found him- 
self upon his grandfather’s knee, and enfolded in 
his arms as tenderly as if he were a fragile, precious 
crystal; he held his fresh young lips toward the old 
face, where joy and a kind of anger mingled in a 
strange fashion. 

“Kiss me,” said the boy. 

For the first time in his life, the grandfather’s 
lips touchedthose of his grandchild, but he remained 
doubtful, troubled, looking by turns from his daugh- 
ter to his son-in-law. Julia resting her hand on her 
father’s arm, showed him the band of crepe which 


254 


URETTE. 


bordered the little gray blouse. M. Leneil started 
violently and pressed the child to his heart. 

“Charles?” he asked, his whole face changed by 
a terrible fear. 

At this moment Charles appeared at the end of 
the avenue, leaning on Aurette’s arm. Broken 
down by fever, and the fatigue of the journey, and 
also by poignant grief, he walked feebly, with weak 
limbs, and a wildly beating heart. 

“There is Charles,” said Armand, “it is not he 
for whom Jean is in mourning — ” 

“She?” fell from the grandfather’s lips, almost 
in a whisper. 

Julia and her husband bowed their heads in as- 
sent. M. Leneil placed the child upon the ground, 
and with extraordinary vigor rose to meet his son. 

“ My poor boy!” said he, stretching out his arms 
to him. 

Of the two men, the son appeared more weary, 
and nearer his end; they sat down side by side, 
with the child between them; then, without know- 
ing how, little Jean found himself again upon his 
grandfather’s knee. He held out his baby hands 
for the silver spoon. 

“ Is it for Jean?” said he. 


AURETTE. 255 

And as Aurette put it in his hand, he drew his 
aunt to him and kissed her. 

“ He is a dear little soul,” said Charles, looking 
at him with moist eyes, “he is all gentleness and 
gayety; he is brave too, for on the journey, although 
sick and prostrated by the heat, he never uttered a 
complaint for fear of grieving me, I really believe.” 

Aurette’s eyes met her father’s, and she read in 
them a deep joy, almost fierce, at having a grand- 
child who was wholly a Leneil. 

“ He resembles you so greatly,” said he to 
Charles, “that at first I mistook him for you, or 
rather an apparition of you.” 

“ He does not resemble me so much as he does 
Aurette,” responded Charles, “ and it is to her that 
I have brought him; it was his mother’s dying wish 
that she should have him.” 

Aurette, without saying a word, took the little 
one by the hand and led him gently down the 
paths along the terrace; when they were alone at 
the spot where she had wept so bitterly in the past 
she knelt beside him. 

“ Do you know who I am?” she asked him, en- 
twining her arms around him. 


256 


AURETTE. 


He looked at her an instant with his beautiful 
brown eyes with their gleam of gold, like those in- 
to which he was gazing with so much confidence. 
The little three-year old brain, subject to the test of 
a long separation and a journey, which overthrew 
his whole short life, sought vainly for a clue. He 
hesitated for a moment, then with the joy of a 
young dog who finds again his master, he threw his 
arms around Aurette’s neck and exclaimed: 

“ Mamma!” 

She pressed him to her heart, and wept over the 
chesnut curls which the wind tossed gently; but 
they were tears of happiness. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

One year afterward the family was once more 
united under the old plane-tree. From the nursery 
windows, now suitably furnished with a bar of iron, 
floated a superb, red balloon. Jean was making 
sand pies with the little silver spoon which he had 
never relinquished from the day he arrived at the 
Nest. The “ seamstress,” welcomed by Aurette so 
long before, was walking about on the lawn with 
Julia’s handsome baby in her arms; the others, 
happy and idle, had ceased to converse. 

At last, Doctor Rozel, rousing himself from the 
drowsiness of this sweet summer afternoon, said to 
Aurette: 

“We will vegetate here, with nothing to do! 
Come, Aurette, let us take a little stroll.” 

They walked for some time in silence under the 
dense shade of the umbrageous trees, but at last the 
doctor decided to speak. 

“ Listen now,” said he to his young friend, “ for 
I must make myself clear, and talk candidly. You 


258 


AURETTE. 


are twenty-nine years old, and you were never more 
beautiful.” 

“ Doctor, I implore you!” said Aurette, covering 
her ears with her hands. 

“ Do me the pleasure of listening to me, mad- 
emoiselle; I am here to-day for this purpose. You 
must marry. It is not possible that a charming girl 
like you can renounce marriage; it would be a crime. 
I know of an amiable young man who is wasting 
away for love of you.” 

“Doctor,” replied Aurette, “I have listened to 
you patiently for a long time; permit me to inter- 
rupt you; I do not wish to marry; I will not marry.” 

“Yes, I knew you would say this to me: You are 
needed here; it is true, but taking everything into 
consideration, it could be well arranged.” 

“ It is not that, doctor,” said she, looking at him 
with a gentle expression in her soft eyes. “ It is 
marriage that I fear. Do you wish me to tell you 
my true feelings? Well, I have suffered once, and 
I fear to suffer again. I have not the strength to 
contend with disillusions.” 

“But,” exclaimed the excellent man, “one may 
marry without illusions; illusions are not necessary 
to matrimony.” 


AURETTE. 


259 


Aurette smiled and laid her hand on her old 
friend’s arm. 

“ I am a creature made up of illusions,” said she. 
“In the past, I imagined my affianced perfect; I 
afterward believed that Sidonie would reform; now 
I believe that my little Jean is the most beautiful, 
the most intelligent, the most delightful child in 
the world. And it pleases me to repeat to myself 
that you are the most adorable old doctor one could 
ever have for a friend. Ah well, if I married, it 
would be necessary for me to believe that my hus- 
band was absolutely a -superior being. Without 
which, I might perhaps be a good wife, but not a 
happy one. At present I am happy.” 

“Humph! ” said the doctor incredulously. 

“I am happy,” repeated Aurette with an accent 
of real sincerity. “My father, my brother, my little 
Jean, Julia and her child (and I hope she will have 
others) and her husband, who is an ideal brother- 
in-law, all this, without mentioning you, makes me 
an exquisite e?itourage , just to my taste, the like of 
which I could never find elsewhere. My urchins 
are growing apace, my flowers are blooming — you 
know I have taken to gardening again with a frenzy, 
and it is your fault — my good dog adores me. AH 


26 o 


AURETTE. 


this makes a beautiful frame for my happy life; 
happy and useful, for they all need me. It suffices 
me; leave me to the happiness which I have made 
for myself, and the duties which I have created.” 

“But,” said the doctor, “the children will grow 
up, your father — ” 

“Hush! I know it,” she replied lowering her 
voice, “ I will then find other duties, other joys.” 

“Another dog,” he added ironically. 

“Alas! poor Bruno! yes, in time, another dog; 
but not for many years, for he is well preserved for 
his age. But I will find something useful to do 
which will make me happy. And my garden will 
always be young and new.” 

“So you are entirely resolved? My friend is 
going to be greatly disappointed. He is charming! 
You know him, it is — ” 

“Do not tell me his name,” said Aurette quickly. 
“If I know him it would make me ill at ease in his 
presence, and perhaps he is one of a number of per- 
sons whose company I enjoy. Let me keep my 
innocent pleasure — ” 

“ Mamma Aurette! ” cried Jean from a neighbor- 
ing walk, “come quickly; grandpapa wishes to tell 
you something!” 


AURETTE. 26l 

“ I am coming,” replied Aurette, running toward 
him. 

Doctor Rozel watched her until she had disap- 
peared, as young, as light of step as six years ago. 

“Such a delightful girl!” he murmured, “is it 
not vexatious! But who knows, she may yet change 
her mind.” 


THE END. 


Q\ICAGO ANB 

Foster n Illinois 
L-C. 


CHICAG 



EVANSVILLEg y 

} NASHVILLE 

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AND THE 

ONLY DOUBLE-TRACK LINE 

BETWEEN 

CHICA GO ™°™r SOUTH 

Limited Vestibuled Trains 

Run Daily Between 

CHICACO and NASHV ILLE, TENN. 

For Maps, Time Tables, Illustrated Guides, Sleeping Car Space 
or any Information, apply to 

CHICACO CITY TICKET OFFICES: 

204 CLARK STREET and AUDITORIUM HOTEL, 

OR TO 

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Gen’I Pass, and Ticket Agent. 

General Offices: First National Bank Building, 
CHICAGO. 



















































































































































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